Sons Of Storms
by skyflower51
Summary: Ulfric Stormcloak can't believe his ears when he learns that a High Elf is Dragonborn - or when the Altmer in question arrives at the Palace of the Kings, asking to join the Stormcloaks. But as time passes, the war rages, and the Dragonborn turns from an unconventional soldier to his blood brother, Ulfric finds himself looking at the world - and elves - in a different light.
1. The Man In The Iron Amour

**Hello there, readers! This is the second (the first being _Passengers_ ) in a couple of short stories I'm writing featuring my Dragonborns' friendships. In this case, I'm writing about one of my character's friendship with Ulfric Stormcloak. As with _Passengers,_ while quests from the game will feature, the main focus will be on the relationships between the characters, not on the events of the quests themselves so much. (Partly because I don't want anyone to get bored reading about the same events they've played/read about many, many times before!)**

 **Since this is a Civil War themed story, and I know those can be divisive, I should state now that I'm actually pretty neutral when it comes to the Stormcloaks/Imperials debate. I have an Imperial-aligned OC, and some who are on neither side, but the Dragonborn in this story sides with the Stormcloaks because it fits his personality and backstory. I apologise in advance to those of you who back the Imperials, but I hope most of you will still enjoy the story. :)**

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SONS OF STORMS

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CHAPTER ONE – THE MAN IN THE IRON ARMOUR

Ulfric Stormcloak could never forget the moment he met the Dragonborn. Because it was the moment he came closer to death than he ever had before.

He had been close to joining his ancestors in the past. Spells had been hurled at his head that had brushed past him close enough to scorch his skin and blacken a few strands of hair. Swords had come so close to penetrating his armour that after the battle was over, he'd examine the steel mail that had saved his life and realise that the snap of just one more link would have killed him. And then there were those days curled in the corner of a Thalmor cell, hunger eating away at his insides, fear and shame gnawing at his mind, and the terror that every clink of metal that signified the opening of the door brought his destruction.

It never had. It had only ever brought pain. And guilt. And grief.

But those times, those narrow escapes, those brushes with death – they were not like his meeting with the one they called _Dovahkiin._ That was the first time he had been certain there was no escape. The first time he had not only feared but _known_ it was over for him. The first time had felt his mind grow numb in the grip of a cold, terrible certainty that this was his end, that this was the last his eyes would see of Nirn, that the next sight that would meet them would be the skies of Sovngarde.

It wasn't, though. Because of him. Because of the Dragonborn.

It happened quickly, so quickly that no matter how hard he tried, Ulfric could never quite remember what happened. The Imperials had pushed them back, a relentless wall of blades and red and brown armour, and though Ulfric had shouted until his throat ached that they had to stay in their circle, his men had been broken apart. Already two of them had gone down between the Imperials' blades, though through the ever-moving throng, it had seemed to Ulfric that they had drowned in a sea of soldiers.

The legionaries, of course, were targeting him. He'd have been suprised if they hadn't. He was their enemy, the figurehead of the rebellion, and they wanted him gone. That was fine with Ulfric, it meant his men had more of a chance, but no one wants to be set upon by ten soldiers at once. He had fought with everything he had, of course. He had Shouted, let the Unrelenting Force Shout rip from his mouth, and one had crumpled as the shockwave slammed him into a tree. From the snapping sound that had accompanied his collision, Ulfric guessed he'd snapped the man's spine. And while he knew it would be some time before he could call the Voice to his aid again, he could still put up a fight wielding the same weapons as his own warriors. An axe and a heart filled with true Nord spirit were just as powerful as any ancient dragon magic.

But it wasn't enough. The legionaries kept coming. Ulfric hacked down one, whirled around to slice through the neck of another, twisted around – and a third broke through his defence, sword driving towards his heart. He reeled back far enough to dodge the strike, but he was off balance, his momentum was stronger than his reflexes, and he moved backwards too far. He knew instantly that he would fall, and fall he did.

One of his men shouted to him, and Ulfric gritted his teeth, struggling to find room to rise as the Imperials closed in. If he could just hold them off, take a few of them down, he could get back on his feet. If he stayed down, he was dead, but if he could get up, he still had a chance. _If only I had a horse,_ Ulfric thought bitterly.

Still, he had an axe. And that would do. It was enough to slice into one man's legs, for instance, and send him dropping to his knees with a howl. It was enough to wave it so that another took a step backwards. It was enough to buy him space – beautiful, Gods-given _space –_ to put his hands down on the ground, ready to push him up –

And one of the Imperial captains, a man in steel armour as thick as a mudcrab's shell brought his foot down on Ulfric's right hand. Hard. Too hard.

Pain shot through every one of his fingers and he knew then, with the soldier's knowledge that always understands the truth of every wound he is given, that when the Imperial lifted his foot, he would not be able to keep holding his axe. His fingers simply would not be able to grip it. And so it was. The booted foot rose up. Ulfric tried to close his fingers around the axe handle, and they wouldn't move. They were not broken. They were simply dead with pain – only for the moment, but it was the moment Ulfric had needed.

The Imperial captain kicked the axe away before Ulfric could reach for it with his left hand. And there was no space to move, no weapon to use as a shield, when the man brought his sword swinging down towards Ulfric's neck.

That was the moment. That was the moment of realisation that nothing could stop this, that nothing could save him, that nothing could prevent his death, and that after all these years of fighting, it ended now.

It was also the moment that the man in the battered iron armour leaped out of nowhere and sank his greatsword down into the Imperial officer's back.

It _sank._ There was a crash like rock splitting, and the blade simply sank. The Imperial toppled forward, limp as a plucked flower, and Ulfric knew from the way he fell that he was dead. He lifted an arm to push the body aside before it could fall on top of him, and as he shoved it away, he saw. The sword had come down with enough force to crack the Imperial's armour. The entire back had been broken into pieces.

The man in the iron armour lashed out again, his blade – a weapon long as Ulfric was tall - sweeping in an arc over Ulfric's head. A couple of the legionaries had the sense to either jump back or duck. But two or three more crumpled, their stomachs or necks slashed open.

And there it was again. The space Ulfric needed to plant his palms firmly on the earth and push himself up onto his feet again. He reached down, snatched up his axe with his thankfully now-responding fingers, and spun around, his eyes seeking his saviour.

The man with the greatsword had his back to Ulfric now as he faced down another group of Imperials, but while the face was hidden, the frame of the body was easy to see. The man was taller than Ulfric, taller than any of the Stormcloaks here, and his shoulders were broad as a bear's. His iron armour bore the marks of countless battles – notches, burns, dents – and of a mane of golden hair fell over the back of his neck, half-hidden by the helmet.

The build, the weapon, the fact that he was beating the Imperials back – all the signs pointed towards this man being a true Nord. A smile tugged at the corner of Ulfric's mouth. Just when everything had seemed most hopeless, this stranger had appeared. A reminder that the sons of Skyrim were willing to fight for their home. For him.

It wasn't enough, though. Nothing was going to be enough.

The Imperials were closing in, a little closer with every second. Already some of Ulfric's warriors had been disarmed, dragged to the side, dumped on the outskirts of the battle with their hands bound. Other Stormcloaks lay still, curled around their wounds, with the remaining combatants tripping over them or else trampling them into the dirt. And while there were Imperial bodies there too, both dead and dying, there were far too many left.

Ulfric saw Halgor go down, refusing to surrender as always, kicking and roaring at the men who seized him until at last they gave up and stopped his shouts with a sword to the neck. He saw Jund pinned, two Imperials holding each arm as he fought against them, though not hard enough to prevent them finally binding him, hurling him aside like a child throws aside bad apple he doesn't want to eat. He saw Kalla straining to get towards the main group of survivors and be grasped by the legionaries' hands on the way, saw her go limp with despair as they tugged the warhammer from her grasp. Ulfric managed to meet her gaze, and there was an apology in her eyes that made his heart both ache and burn.

Not many of them left now. Just him, and Ralof, and Hedda, and the stranger.

It was never going to last long, but they fought anyway, fought with everything they had. Even when Hedda fell, her neck pierced right through with an arrow, Ralof kept hacking away with his axe, felling two before they finally disarmed him. The stranger kept swinging that enormous sword to and fro while the Imperials paced back and forth around him, like wary wolves wondering whether or not it was safe to spring on a mammoth. And Ulfric kept Shouting them back, kept slashing and lunging and showing no mercy, even though he knew with a soldier's certainty that they had already lost this battle, that the end was coming.

It came at last. He was never certain, afterwards, how they did it. Sheer weight of numbers, he guessed. He fought for as long as he was able, but they were too many, and at last the axe was knocked from his grip, this time for good. The leather strips went around his wrist, and the gag around his mouth, so tight that it bit into the skin, so tight he knew he would never be able to call on the Voice. They hauled him aside, to where they had the carts waiting to take them away.

Leaving the stranger.

There were twenty or so around him now, a score against one man, and that one man put up a Gods-damn good fight. The exact details were later to blur together in Ulfric's memory, but he remembered at least five of them falling to the vast blade. The man stood still and strong as a mountain, not moving his feet, not retreating a step, just fighting. Until at last one of them came up from behind and slammed a mace down on the back of his head.

The blow wasn't strong enough to kill, not when the man was protected by his helmet, but it was enough. For a moment, he didn't move, and some small, irrational part of Ulfric's mind wondered if he would simply shrug off the blow. But then he swayed, and the sword fell from his hands, and he crashed face-first into the earth.

From someone around him, Ulfric heard a sigh of resignation, and he understood. While one of them, just one, had remained fighting, they had all been able to pretend that they might win. When the stranger in the iron armour fell, their hopes fell with him.

The Imperials seemed to falter, as if they were uncertain of what to do now that the battle was over, and the victory was theirs. And as was the way with Imperials, they needed someone to shout them into order before they returned to their usual organisation. The woman Captain bawled at them until they formed a line, then marched forward to examine the fallen stranger.

'Is he dead?' he demanded.

'We didn't check.'

'Then check. If he survived, we can take him with the others and set that right.'

One of the soldiers knelt beside the unconscious man, and - with some effort, since the stranger was so tall and muscular - heaved him onto his back. The Imperial frowned at the still form for a moment, then removed the helmet and bent close to the face, clearly trying to detect any signs of breathing.

'He's alive,' he reported, and there was an odd, startled tone in his voice. At first, Ulfric assumed he was just amazed to see someone survive such a powerful blow – but then the Imperial stepped back, and the real reason became clear.

Ulfric Stormcloak learned a new meaning to the word _surprise_ that day. Nothing, nothing at all, could have prepared him for the sight of the face that had been hidden under the iron helmet. He had expected to see the pale, broad face of a Nord. Surely only a Nord would have leaped into battle to aid him. Only a Nord could have wielded so vast a weapon with such skill and strength and ease.

But the face he saw was not a Nord's face. It was a thin, long face, with high cheekbones and a pointed chin. The eyes – still open, though glazed over – were the colour of a rising sun. And the skin was yellow-gold.

Had Ulfric been able to move his mouth, his lip would have curled. This man was no _man_ at all. He was mer. Elf. Altmer.

The enemy.

Ulfric glanced around at his men, and saw the same disgust and disbelief he felt reflected on their faces. A couple seemed simply stunned. One or two were grinding their teeth.

'Must be a Thalmor plant,' Jund muttered.

Yes, that made sense. The Thalmor would be the first to pull something like this – send in someone, disguised, to interfere with the battle. Perhaps they were planning something that required Ulfric alive, or perhaps they just wanted to see him die with their own eyes, rather than entrust his death into the hands of the Imperials.

Why, though, would any Thalmor agent wear that heavy armour, or wield such a weapon? The elf obviously had years of practise with the greatsword, but what Altmer learned how to use a two-handed blade? As a rule, they used spells, swords or maces, very occasionally bows. Never two-handed weapons. Never. And why would a Thalmor wear warpaint like this one's – two thick, dark red streaks on either cheek? And would any sane Thalmor braid their hair in the Nordic fashion? Because this elf's hair was braided, a thick strand of it pulled into a tight plait not unlike the ones Ulfric wore himself.

Still, there was no explaining some of the things elves did. Maybe Elenwen and her grunts had thought they'd mistake this man for a Nord somehow. Ulfric didn't know why the Thalmor would want to disguise one of their agents as a Nord, and he didn't care. He wasn't going to spend his last few hours of life trying to understand the minds of elves.

The Imperials were still hovering around the elf, checking him for weapons, emptying his pockets, dividing his coin up among themselves. A couple were doing the same with Ulfric's men, and Ulfric gestured as best as he could that they shout sit back and let them do it. There was no use fighting on now – the Imperials might well decide they were more trouble than they were worth and cut them down there and then. In Ulfric's experience, it was always wisest to wait until the last moment before doing something suicidal. There was always a chance that something might happen to save you. He'd been saved by pure luck more than once, and he wasn't about to entirely give up hope that it might happen again.

'Captain.' It was another soldier, a woman this time, crouching over the fallen Altmer. 'Look at this.'

She moved aside as her commander approached, but kept her hand cupped around the thing she was trying to show. And that meant Ulfric saw it too, a small bronze object, winking in the morning light. Shaped a little like an axe head threaded onto a length of twine.

An amulet of Talos.

Ulfric's first reaction was pure, unbridled fury. There was no place a Thalmor could find such an amulet except on a dead Nord, a true Nord who followed the Ninth Divine. The elf must have robbed it from a corpse, taken it from the body of one of Ulfric's dead kismen as a trophy. Except… it didn't make sense. Why would any Thalmor wear such a thing so openly? Not even many Nords who followed Talos dared to wear the amulet. Even if the accursed elf only wanted a memento of a battle fought and won, surely he would never wear the thing, never risk being mistaken for a Talos worshipper by his comrades?

Which left the only real option being that he was no Thalmor. But that made even less sense, because if that was true it would mean that the Altmer had gone to fight with the Stormcloaks, had saved Ulfric's life, out of… well, out of a will to help them. But no Altmer would ever fight for the Stormcloaks. That was a fact of life – water froze in the cold, night came after day, and Altmer did not support Ulfric. That was the end of it.

There were only two options, and each was as impossible as the other.

 _Best to stop thinking about it,_ Ulfric told himself. _Your mind has better things to do now than worry about the motivations of an elf._

He couldn't help but watch, though, as the Imperial captain tutted and yanked at the amulet, breaking the twine and pulling it free of the elf's neck. And he also couldn't help feeling a surge of anger as the woman dropped the amulet onto the ground and pressed it into the earth under the heel of her boot. That was no way to treat Talos's holy symbol, whoever its bearer had been.

He had no more time to dwell on it, though, as the Imperials began to shepherd them onto the carts. They saved Ulfric till last, and to his distaste, by the time they came to him, there was only one cart left, and three prisoners to share it. One was Ralof, and he had no complaints about that, but the other was the unconscious Altmer. Two of the Imperials hefted him up onto the cart and dragged him onto one seat, then shouted for Ulfric to sit next to him.

 _Another way to humiliate me,_ he thought with a mental snarl. _Defeat me, bind me, gag me, and then force me to die beside an elf._

An elf, who, for some inexplicable reason, wore the same amulet that still hung around Ulfric's neck.

The captain turned to the nearest man and barked at him to 'Fetch the thief.' The soldier nodded and hurried off into the trees, returning a moment later with his hand clamped around the collar of a Nord man with a dirt-smeared face and torn clothes, who was dragging his feet with every step he took and gibbering protests.

 _Must have caught him while they were waiting for us._ A thief the man might have been, but Ulfric felt a tiny stirring of guilt. At any other time, this man might have been sentenced to a fine or a week or so in prison. But because the group of Imperials who'd apprehended him happened to have been looking for Ulfric and his men, the thief had ended up thrown in with a batch of prisoners scheduled for execution.

A batch of prisoners and an elf who might or might not be a Thalmor plant.

One of the soldiers leaped up onto the cart and cracked his whip. The horse threw itself against its harness, and the wheels jolted into motion.

Some minutes crept by in silence, other than the click of the horse's hooves on the cobbled path, and the occasional sniffs of the thief. Ralof made a few attempts at conversation, but wasn't able to get much out of the criminal other than that his name was Lokir, he'd been arrested for stealing a horse, and that he was a milk-drinking weakling. That third thing wasn't something the man said, exactly, but it wasn't hard to work out.

And then, at last, the Altmer began to stir. Ulfric sensed rather than saw that he was waking, and turned his head so as to keep an eye on him. If he was with the Thalmor, it would pay to be ready for anything he tried.

The elf lifted his head, blinked those unnatural golden-orange eyes a few times, and tried to lift a hand – to rub his head, Ulfric guessed. The elf looked down in surprise when his movement was hampered by his bonds, and looked at his tied wrists with an expression of resignation. Then he bent his head down, that overlarge chin pressing right against his neck, his eyes narrowed, as if he were searching for something.

'They took your amulet,' Ralof said.

The elf looked up at him, considered his words for a moment, then gave a small nod. 'Of course they did.'

Another surprise – his accent was that of a Nord. Not all that dissimilar to Ulfric's own. And he could tell that it was his natural way of speaking. Nothing about the words sounded forced or faked.

'I was surprised to see you wearing that,' Ralof remarked, and Ulfric might have let out a snort of amusement if he could. Of course - Ralof was just as bemused as he was. 'Not a regular thing for one of your kind to have on them.'

The elf let out a quiet chuckle. 'I know. But I'm hardly a regular Altmer, as you might have guessed.'

'Aye, that's one way of putting it.' The suspicion in Ralof's eyes was gradually being replaced by pure interest. 'Unusual choice of weapon, for one thing. And for another –'

'You don't need to tell me.' The elf's voice was light. 'I know you're surprised that I tried to help you. You probably reckon I had some kind of reason of my own. Well, I didn't. I helped you because that was a battle I wanted you to win, and I'd do it again if I had to. If I could.'

He paused and turned to Ulfric, and the look in his eyes… well, that could only be respect. 'I'm sorry I couldn't be more use to you, Jarl Ulfric.'

For the first time, Ulfric was glad of the gag, because that meant he could just grunt in reply, without trying to work out what in the name of all that was good and holy he thought about everything the elf had just said. For the Gods' sakes, it was bad enough being almost certainly about to die, without some walking contradiction of a High Elf turning up and confusing him.

'Well, you certainly gave those Imperials something to think about.' Ralof leaned back against the wall of the cart. 'Where're you from?'

'The southern coast of Summerset, originally. Near Sunhold. But I grew up further north, in Cloudrest. And you don't have a clue where any of those places are, do you?'

Ralof's answer was his shrug. 'Never been there, never want to. And won't get a chance to.'

'The first two are understandable, and the third's probably right.' The elf pursed his lips.

There was another lull in the conversation, and then Ralof asked the question Ulfric had been wondering himself, and which again made him glad that he was gagged, because it wasn't a question he'd ever have cared to ask an elf, and he was infuriated that this one was making him want to ask it. 'What's your name?'

'Arvenrior.' It was a typical Altmer name, and Ulfric was about to try and force his mind away from the elf again, when he added, 'Arvenrior Storm-Watcher.'

 _Storm-Watcher?_ Ulfric thought, and 'Storm-Watcher?' Ralof echoed.

'Storm-Watcher,' the elf affirmed, and left it at that.

So it was time to consider a new theory, distasteful as it was. A Nord surname, Nord braids, Nord fighting style, Nord warpaint… the signs pointed towards this man having had a Nord father. A half-blood, he must be, the product of a relationship between some Nord who'd lost his mind and an Altmer woman. And maybe what he'd said was true, and he had wanted to help the Stormcloaks just for the sake of helping them, because he'd been raised in a Nord way.

And Ulfric wished he knew what to think about that. This man, this Arvenrior Storm-Watcher – if he had cared enough about defending the Nord way of life to give up his life fighting the Imperials, what did that make him? Did it make him a Nord who just happened to have an Altmer body? Or did it make him an Altmer pretending to be a Nord? Ulfric wanted to believe the latter. It was Altmer who had been his greatest and truest enemy for more years than he cared to count. Altmer had tortured him, beaten him, shamed him, torn his life apart. The very idea that anyone wearing that body could have a Nord's heart within was repellent.

But if Storm-Watcher wasn't lying, then he couldn't be pure Altmer. No pure Altmer could wear Talos's amulet, or carry a Nord name, or risk their life for the Stormcloak's cause.

It made no sense, so Ulfric stopped thinking about it as much as he could, glad when Ralof changed the subject to the reason behind the elf's capture, and the horse thief broke in with a complaint about how he would have got away with his crime if not for the Stormcloaks. And so the journey went, with nothing more of note happening, except that when Ralof grimly remarked that Sovngarde lay in wait for them when the carts stop, the Altmer nodded, closed his eyes, and murmured a wistful, 'I hope so.'

When they passed the Thalmor, Ulfric's first thought was how much he'd like to leap out of this cart and somehow break his bonds and strangle Elenwen there and then. His second was to glance at Storm-Watcher. The elf was staring at his black-robed elves with the same kind of fury and hatred in his eyes that Ulfric knew was on his own face.

Which also made no sense.

By the time the carts stopped, nothing had arrived to save them. Nothing happened to save that horse thief as he tried to make a run for it, poor stupid wretch. And when the Imperials pushed and shouted them into lines waiting beside the block, when Tullius ranted in Ulfric's face about how the Empire was about to put him down (Ulfric was tempted to find _some_ way to attack the man, if just for speaking about him like he was some kind of dog) and restore the peace (and the injustice, Ulfric added mentally), nothing had happened still. Nothing happened as Jund snapped at the priestess to shut up and get things over with the moment she mentioned the Eight Divines (good man, Ulfric thought) and sent a final, defiant verbal barb at the Imperials as the axe fell. Nothing happened as the citizens of Helgen bayed their approval, or as Kalla shouted at them in fury, and as that obnoxious captain ordered the elf forward.

Nothing happened as Arvenrior Storm-Watcher, the puzzle that had suddenly appeared to save Ulfric's live and then to throw what was left of that life into confusion, strode forwards, head high, eyes unafraid. Nothing happened as he shoved the Imperial captain aside with his shoulder as she moved to push him onto the block with her foot, or as he gently pushed Jund's headless corpse to one side, and bared his neck for the axe without a single flinch at the sight of the blood that smeared the wooden cube on which his head now rested.

Something did happen, though, as the executioner raised his axe, something really rather significant. And Ulfric, in the chaos that followed, still found time to reflect on how right his experience had been, yet again. There was always a chance that something would turn up. Jund should have held on for just one minute more, Ulfric thought ruefully, as he dropped to his knees beside the corpse of the nearest Imperial and used the man's fallen sword to slice through his bonds.

To be sure, he'd never expected a Gods-damned _dragon_ to show up, but now it was here, he wasn't complaining.

He made sure Kalla made it into the relative safety of the tower, helping her carry the wounded Unlef. Koll followed on their heels, and then came Garvund, who collapsed almost the instant he was through the door. Ulfric scoured the smoke-filled scene for any more blue-sashed figures, and saw none.

Then Ralof appeared through the grey clouds, with Arvenrior Storm-Watcher one step behind him.

And as they clustered together in the tower, with Helgen burning outside, and Ralof led the elf up the stairs to seek a way out, Ulfric felt a peculiar certainty birth itself within his mind. He knew, with so much surety that the fact could have been placed within his head by the Gods themselves, that if he survived this, and if the man in the iron armour survived it too, nothing in his life would ever be the same again.

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 **Well, chapter one has flowed nicely, which is always a good sign. Hopefully chapter two will follow soon enough.**

 **I know I glossed over most of the Helgen scene, but as I mentioned, I don't want to dwell too much on game events - especially the opening, which I'm sure we've all seen a hundred times. I hope I'm getting Ulfric in character, but he's such a complex person it's hard, so I'd appreciate some feedback on that front. It's hard to show both sides of him - the narrow-minded man with all too many prejudices, and the experienced soldier who cares about his country and his men.**

 **As for Arvenrior, more about him will be revealed in chapters to come. I do have a oneshot about him that explains his backstory, but it'll be talked about in this story too.**

 **Thanks for reading!**


	2. The Visitor To The Palace

CHAPTER TWO – THE VISITOR TO THE PALACE

'You'd think,' Galmar growled, slamming his tankard down onto the table, 'that when a dragon shows up for the first time in centuries and turns a whole town to rubble, it'd be impossible for the two people who most needed to die to live.'

'Not impossible, Galmar.' Ulfric gazed into the depths of his mug, gripping it tight with both hands. 'A decent amount of people escaped.'

'A decent amount would have been short Tullius and Elenwen.'

Ulfric had no answer to this; it was the truth. He'd been lucky to escape Helgen with his life. A handful of his men had made it out with him, but the group that had returned to Windhelm had been a sorry, bedraggled party, and a fraction of the size of the group that had locked blades with the Imperials in that final stand they'd made at the border. A few others had turned up in the days since. No doubt plenty of the Imperials had survived too. Elenwen, of course, would have taken herself off to safety at the earliest opportunity – she had no cause to stay and fight alongside humans, Ulfric thought with a silent growl. And Tullius… well, the man was a good strategist, Ulfric freely admitted that. Once he'd seen that killing the dragon and saving the town was a lost cause, he'd probably have run. Or 'made a tactical retreat,' as the Empire liked to call it.

Still, his old friend was right – it was infuriating that when so many innocent citizens and fine Stormcloak warriors had died to the dragon's flames, Elenwen and Tullius had lived. Ulfric was used to the feeling that there was a definite lack of justice in the world, but it was never nice to be reminded of the fact.

'Still.' Galmar swilled his mead around, then knocked back a few gulps. 'At least you made it out. Not even a burn.'

'Six burns,' Ulfric corrected him. 'And a bruised knee.'

Galmar snorted loudly. 'Gods, Ulfric. A monster from ancient legends appears and razes a village, and you brush it off with _six burns and a bruised knee._ '

Ulfric frowned. 'There's no need for exaggeration. Make songs out of the things that deserve to be sung about. I lived. That's what important.'

'Aye.' Galmar set his flagon down, his face becoming more serious. 'And I'm glad of it.'

A smile spread across Ulfric's face. 'As am I, my friend.'

Harrowing as the last few days had been, Galmar's reaction to his safe return had been like drinking a healing potion. There was nothing, Ulfric thought with amusement, like having your oldest friend almost crush you in a bear-hug, berate you for nearly getting yourself killed, then practically throw you onto the nearest chair, slam a mug of mead into your hands and roar at the servants to fetch you a warm cloak and some food. Ulfric didn't approve of people being spoiled, but it was nice to know Galmar was looking out for him.

He chuckled into his mug, and tipped back another swallow. 'Well, whatever that dragon wanted, it's a good thing it showed up.'

'Not so much the others,' Galmar said grimly. 'Ysmir's beard, don't we have enough problems on our hand crushing the Empire without having to deal with Gods-damned dragons at the same time?'

'If it causes trouble for us, it causes trouble for Tullius.'

'Trouble for him at the cost of innocent Nord lives.' Galmar pounded the table with his fist. 'If I didn't have a war to help you win, I'd be out there smashing the heads of the beasts myself.'

'I don't doubt it.' Ulfric drained his mug and carefully set down the empty container. 'But I need you here, Galmar. Let this… Dragonborn take care of the dragon problem.' He frowned. 'Have you learned heard any more about him?'

The news had arrived in Windhelm mere hours after Ulfric had, delivered by Jorleif, who said he'd heard it while out in the town from Viola Giordano, who'd heard it from one of the Argonian dockworkers, who'd heard it from a passing guard, who'd heard it from one of the Khajiit traders, who'd heard it from a guard in Whiterun. It was the way news travelled in Skyrim, spreading like ripples in a pond from one man or woman to another, until the entire province had heard it. In Whiterun, people were saying, a dragon had attacked a watchtower, and the Jarl had sent a mercenary warrior along with his guards to repel the creature. The warrior had slain the beast – and absorbed its soul.

Ulfric might have doubted the story, had he not heard proof of it with his own ears. The call from the Throat of the World that had shaken the earth and made any who heard it stop and turn their eyes to the distant mountain. The voices of his old teachers, the Greybeards. And the word they had shouted was _Dovahkiin._

And Ulfric had learned enough of the dragon tongue from his time in High Hrothgar to know what it meant. _Dragonborn_. One had been chosen, to fight this new menace, appointed by the Gods themselves.

It made Ulfric's blood warm, to know he was living in the same age as this hero, someone foretold in prophecy, with a power sung of in ancient tales. The same power Talos had, when he was Tiber Septim. He'd asked for Jorleif to inform him if any more was learned about this new Dragonborn, because here was a chance that couldn't be allowed to slide by. No doubt Akatosh had chosen a true Nord for this honour, someone who would defend Skyrim with all his or her heart, because it was their beloved home. And such a warrior might well be a sympathiser to Ulfric's cause. Such a warrior could be just what the Stormcloaks needed to turn the war's tide in their favour.

Absorbed in these thoughts as he was, it took him some time to realise that Galmar had not answered his question, and that his gaze had grown grim. 'Galmar?'

His housecarl's grip on his tankard tightened. 'There's a reason I wish I could take the fight to the dragons myself. There's been news about the Dragonborn, all right, and it's not good.'

Ulfric frowned. 'Dead?'

'Might as well be, to us.' Galmar shook his head. 'They're saying he's an elf.'

Ulfric stared at him for some moments, a horrible feeling of impending doom spreading through his mind. 'What kind?'

'Guess.'

'Altmer?' Ulfric said wearily.

'Got it in one.' Galmar punched the table again. 'So now our fate and the fate of all Tamriel's in the hands of some pointy-eared bastard who couldn't tell one end of a weapon from another.'

'A mage, then?'

Galmar hesitated, his brow furrowing. 'Actually… well, the guards in Whiterun are yapping about the battle at the watchtower to anyone who'll stay still long enough, and the man I spoke to said they're saying the elf used a greatsword.' He rubbed the back of his head thoughtfully. 'Pretty much forgot about that 'til now. Too busy being angry with the Gods. Who ever heard of a prissy yellow elf swinging a greatsword?'

'I have.' Ulfric didn't meet Galmar's eyes as he spoke; his gaze had drifted onto a patch of air. There was only one thought he could hold in his mind – _can it be him?_ 'There was one at Helgen. He came to help us when the Imperials had us surrounded and ended up being put on the execution carts with the rest of us.'

'An _elf_ came to help you?'

'No ordinary elf.' Ulfric picked at the tablecloth. 'He dressed and fought like a Nord. Called himself Storm-Watcher. That was his surname. Can't remember his first.'

'Some fancy elven thing, no doubt.' Galmar shook his head, bewilderment stamped on his features. 'You think it's the same man?'

'How many other High Elves fight with greatswords?'

Galmar nodded, conceding this point. 'Makes some kind of sense. If he survived Helgen, then it explains why the Jarl sent a stranger to help fight a dragon. Someone who knows how they fight.'

'We can't assume anything. But if Storm-Watcher is Dragonborn, we need him on our side.'

This made Galmar's eyes widen a fraction, and Ulfric held up one hand. 'I know what you're going to say, Galmar. I don't like it any more than you. But the Dragonborn is a symbol. He's an embodiment of all the ancient myths. His power is Talos's power. If we want a way to prove to Skyrim's people that they have a right to worship Him, this is it. We need the Dragonborn fighting under our banner, or at the very least giving us his support. I'd say this whether he was an elf or a Nord or one of the cats from the caravans. We can't let the Empire have him.' He paused, recovering his breath, surprised by his own vehemence. 'And if he's the same man as the one from Helgen, he's got some reason to fight the Imperials.'

'Ulfric.' A tone of worry had crept into Galmar's voice. 'I'm with you on this. The Dragonborn _is_ a symbol. But what kind of symbol would an Altmer Dragonborn be for us?'

'I don't know.' Ulfric gave a single, defeated shake of his head. 'It's another move to make in the political game, Galmar. The Gods have dealt out our hands, and we need to take the risk and play them as seems right.'

He leaned back in his seat. 'And if I'm mistaken, then may Talos forgive me.'

* * *

'I fight so that all the fighting I've already done hasn't been for nothing! I fight…'

Ulfric felt tiredness sweep over him in a thick wave. Whenever anyone, including himself, questioned his motives, it always made him feel like this. Like it hurt that he had to explain it to anyone. It seemed so clear to him why he had to fight, until he dwelled on it too strongly. And in the end, it came down to one thing.

'Because I must.'

He sank down into his throne, closing his eyes. Every day that his war continued without any sign of nearing a conclusion, and with more death, drained a little more from him. He had the support of thousands, he had his honour and the knowledge that his ancestors were watching him with pride from Sovngarde, and he had Galmar's unshaking support and friendship. Yet only victory would ever be enough. Victory, and a free Skyirm.

'Your words give rise to what we all feel, Ulfric.' Galmar approached the throne, and when Ulfric opened his eyes, he saw that his housecarl's eyes were brimming with respect and admiration. 'And that is why you will be High King. But the day when words are enough will be the day when soldiers like us are no longer needed.'

Ulfric pictured it for a moment – a world where all lived in peace, and no man or woman ever hand to lift a blade to defend what they held dear. It was a sweet vision, but one where honour would be nothing but a name, and there would be no songs to sing of acts of courage. Battle was what had forged Skyrim, and made its people fierce and strong.

'I would gladly retire from the world,' he murmured. 'Were such a day to dawn.'

'Aye.' Galmar nodded gravely. 'But in the meantime, we have a war to plan.'

Ulfric raised his head, steeling himself for yet another discussion about how to bring Balgruuf around – and noticed the group standing a little way behind Galmar, watching him with careful eyes.

A frown furrowed Ulfric's brow – he'd not scheduled any meetings today, and the guards would not have let these people into the palace without good reason. Galmar followed Ulfric's gaze, caught sight of them too, and moved to one side, allowing Ulfric a better look. There was a grey-furred war dog with an oddly intelligent-looking face, and a Nord woman with dark hair and armour made from slightly battered steel. And the third…

 _Him._

Funny how a face can scorch itself into your memory, leave such a strong impact, such as feeling that you must not forget it, that no matter how much you hate its features, it remains. Ulfric had known when he saw the face of the man who saved his life that he wouldn't forget it, and he hadn't.

It was the Altmer from Helgen. His iron armour was gone, replaced by a set in a style Ulfric didn't recognise at first – a series of overlapping metal plates, reminiscent of Imperial designs, yet also of the Akaviri patterns Ulfric had seen only in history books. It took Ulfric some time to realise that this was the kind of armour that the Blades had worn in days gone by. The man had a new weapon, too - another greatsword, though in a distinctly more Nordic style than the one the Imperials had taken from him at Helgen. Other than that, the elf was exactly as he had been before – same braid, same red warpaint, same unnatural orange-gold eyes.

After meeting that peculiar gaze for a few moments, Ulfric realised that the elf was waiting for him to speak. So he did so, choosing his words carefully.

'Only the foolish or the courageous approach a Jarl without summons,' he said.

'Or those with important business.' The elf gave a shallow bow. 'I hope I'm not intruding on such business of your own, Jarl Ulfric, but this is a matter of some weight.'

Galmar's arm twitched, and Ulfric could tell his friend was having to exert some strength of will not to read for his battleaxe. Ulfric gave him a 'stand down' gesture, and nodded in the elf's direction. 'I will hear you.' If there was ever a chance to determine the Dragonborn's identity, it was now.

'Thank you.' The elf smiled and took a step forward, but the woman who accompanied him lingered, her eyes watching her companion's every move.

'My name's Arvenrior Storm-Watcher. This is my housecarl, Lydia, and this is Barbas. You and I met before, if you remember. At Helgen.' The elf waved his hand at the woman and the dog in turn, and Ulfric's frown deepened. Housecarl? That made the elf a Thane, but who made an elf Thane of their city? And which city had this man allied himself with? Besides, did a dog really need an introduction? And naming it after Clavicus Vile's companion was in rather poor taste. Still, it was hardly cause for an argument. Ulfric pushed this multitude of questions out of his mind and focused on his visitor's words.

'I remember.' Ulfric dipped his head. Arvenrior – yes, he recalled the name now. 'I've not forgotten how you gave your aid against the Imperials.'

'I'm glad.' Storm-Watcher pursed his lips for a moment, his eyes growing thoughtful, as if he were planning what to say next. 'I don't know if you've heard the rumours. They've been flying all over Skyrim, as far as I can tell, but…'

'They're saying a High Elf who fights like a Nord is Dragonborn,' Ulfric finished for him. 'I heard them. And I had my suspicions at the time. Can you confirm them now?'

A small smile flickered over the gold-skinned features. 'I can. I'm the one they're talking about. I'm the Dragonborn.'

Galmar muttered something that was extremely indistinct, but it might well have been, 'Gods help us.'

Storm-Watcher's head turned sharply towards him, and Ulfric remembered that elves were supposed to have sensitive hearing. The look on the man's face was unmistakably one of hurt – and anger.

'I know you probably don't like seeing an elf in your palace,' he said quietly. 'Or having an elf as the first and last line of defence against the dragons. I know the Nords and the Altmer haven't exactly been on the best of terms recently. But I am the Dragonborn, whether you like it or not, and my race doesn't make any different to the fact that I intend to bring down the World-Eater - and all his kind with him, if I must. If I fail in that duty, judge me then. Judge me by what I've done, not by what I am.'

Something about the way he said the words made Ulfric suspect that this speech had been pre-planned.

'Prove it.' Galmar's voice was a growl. 'Elves like to strut around making fancy claims to line their pockets with gold and trick people into giving them their trust. How do we know this isn't more of the same?'

The woman's face contorted with fury, and she strode forwards to stand by her Thane's side. 'Arvenrior _is_ Dragonborn! I've seen him take the souls of dragons with my own eyes. He's not with the Thalmor, and he's the one the Greybeards called. What he has to say to you is important.'

Galmar's eyes narrowed. 'Good housecarls allow those they guard to fight their own battles.'

'Good housecarls protect their masters' honour,' she snapped back.

Despite his natural disapproval of anyone so sharply to Galmar, Ulfric had to admire her spirit. He noticed that Storm-Watcher flashed her a smile before gesturing for her to relax.

'It's true that the only evidence I've given so far is my words,' he admitted. 'But words can give them proof as well.'

He turned, faced the wall, and sucked in air. ' _Fus RO DAH!'_

A translucent blue wall of energy shot out from the elf's body, tearing through the air and slamming into the wall. Galmar let out a violent exclamation as a tremor ran through the floor. The guards at the doors reached for their weapons, but Ulfric leaped from his seat and raised a hand for them to stand down.

Storm-Watcher turned to Galmar, his brows raised. 'Do you believe me now?'

Galmar glanced at Ulfric, and Ulfric nodded. 'It took me years to learn that Shout. If you had known it at Helgen, you would have used it. You've learned it in weeks.' His eyes narrowed. 'So. You are Dragonborn.'

'I am. And I have a message for you from your former teachers, the Greybeards.' Storm-Watcher's expression grew still more sombre. 'I can't explain the full details, but I need to use the ancient dragon trap in Dragonsreach to capture a dragon. It's the only way to stop Alduin. Unfortunately, Jarl Balgruuf refuses to potentially weaken his city by bringing a dragon inside it – not while Whiterun is under threat of invasion.'

Ulfric sat down slowly, folding his arms. 'So what is it you ask of me? Halt my war to soothe Balgruuf's nerves?'

'Only temporarily.' A trace of urgency had crept into the Dragonborn's voice. 'I need you and General Tullius to come to High Hrothgar and agree to a truce. Just for a few days, so I can capture this dragon and kill Alduin. The dragons have been attacking your Hold, Jarl Ulfric, endangering your people. For their sake, do this.'

Ulfric stared at him for a few moments. 'Has Tullius agreed to this?'

'I've not asked him yet.'

'What brought you to me first?'

'I felt it would be easier to persuade you.'

'And why did you think that?'

Storm-Watcher let out a sound that was half a sigh and half a huff. 'I don't know how to speak to Tullius. He and I don't have much in common.'

 _And what do you and I have in common?_ Ulfric thought. His first reaction was _nothing,_ and then he realised it wasn't true. They'd both shed Imperial blood – that gave them some kind of bond. They both wanted to preserve Skyrim's people and their ways.

The Dragonborn was still talking. 'I don't know what I could say to convince him that this would be worth his while, other than that it's for Skyrim's sake.'

'I doubt that would persuade Tullius to do much,' Ulfric told him.

Suspicion sparked in Galmar's eyes. 'You think you have some kind of leverage over Jarl Ulfric that you don't have over Tullius?'

'Not leverage, no. But I have something to say that might persuade you to do this for me.' Storm-Watcher paused for a moment, then took in a breath and went on. 'Once Alduin is dead, I want to join the Stormcloaks.'

Ulfric wished the elf would stop saying things that made him stare.

He swapped another glance with Galmar, and saw that his housecarl's eyes were still narrowed, though there was bemusement in them along with the suspicion. 'Why'd an elf want to fight for Skyrim?' Galmar growled.

Storm-Watcher's jaw clenched. 'We need to sort this out here and now. I am not one of the Thalmor. They're my enemies as much as yours. And my parents were Nords.'

'Of course they were. Nords with yellow skin and pointy ears,' Galmar snorted.

'I was adopted _,'_ Storm-Watcher said quietly.

Galmar's lip curled. 'What kind of Nords take in an elf?'

Pure fury flashed across the gold-skinned face. 'My parents did. And they were true Nords. True Nords to the last. My father wanted to come to Skyrim, Jarl Ulfric, and fight on your side, and if he had been ten years younger, he'd be here now. When he died, I made a vow that I'd honour that last wish he could never fulfil.'

He took another step towards Ulfric. 'My parents raised me according to Nord traditions and taught me Nord ways. Now I want to fight for the Nords' freedom.'

'So, Ulfric attends this peace council, and you pledge your blade to his cause?' Galmar demanded.

'No. I'll pledge my blade to the Stormcloaks whatever happens, as long as I survive my battle with Alduin. But I hoped that by promising my allegiance to you, I'd be able to make you realise that I'm not asking for you to come to tghis council so that I can somhow help the Empire. I'm not trying to lead you into a trap. I just want to put Balgruuf's mind at ease so I can rid Skyrim of Alduin. Then I want to fight alongside you. I can't join you if Alduin's not dead, and I can't kill Alduin without this peace council.' He glanced at his housecarl, who gave him an encouraging nod. 'Will you come?'

Ulfric looked down at the floor, so he didn't have to meet those inhuman eyes any longer. He'd wanted to learn more about this man, and here were the answers. Adopted by Nords – it made sense. While his instincts still screamed protest at the very idea of an Altmer wielding Talos's power, it was better that it was this man, a Nord-raised man, than some pathetic spell-caster who'd never supped a mug of mead or felt the bite of a frost wind. And whatever he felt about Storm-Watcher's race, there was no denying that he had been talking to Galmar only a few weeks previously about how essential it was for them to get the Dragonborn on their side. He had never imagined that the Dragonborn would stroll right up to them and _offer_ to join them.

He would have done anything to have seen a Nord standing before him now, making that offer, wielding that power. But the world was as it was. He had an elven Dragonborn offering that vast power to the rebellion, and he could not waste it.

He stood up and descended the steps of his throne, stopping before he reached the last one so that he could remain taller than the elf – Shor's bones, he didn't like being shorter, if only by a bit, than this gold-skinned stranger. He forced himself to look right into those eyes, rather than simply at them. When they meet each other's gazes, see each other's souls bared, all men are equal.

What he saw in those orange-golden eyes surprised him. He knew, from that one look, that the elf's words had been true. He knew that Storm-Watcher respected him. And there was something more, something conveyed silently but surely. Pity.

And Ulfric knew then, though he wasn't sure how, that this man knew something he didn't.

He made his choice. He would accept this man into his army. He would attend this peace council. And he would learn what it was that had awoken that spark of pity in the stranger's eyes.

'When is this council?' he demanded.

'First of Sun's Dusk, if everyone agrees to attend.'

'I will be there.'

Storm-Watcher smiled, and the soberness vanished from his face as if it had never been there. 'Thank you, Jarl Ulfric. I'm grateful. More grateful than I can say.' He glanced over his shoulder. 'May I go? I have a journey to make to Solitude – and the difficult task to face of working out what to say to Tullius.' He chuckled slightly.

'Go.' Ulfric returned to his seat. 'Tell Tullius he's a coward if he refuses to come.'

'I might not be as blunt as that, but I might use words to that effect.' Storm-Watcher gave another small bow. 'Gods guard you, Jarl Ulfric. All nine of them.'

He reached for something around his neck, a thread, and gave it a tug. Lifting the amulet that hung from it out from under his armour.

Talos's symbol, again. And the metal was bright and new, as if the amulet were a recent purchase. This was no trophy taken from a dead body – it had been bought with hard-earned coin. Here, no matter how much Ulfric's instincts denied it, was an Altmer who worshipped Talos.

And that was something else they had in common.

The elf left the amulet out in the open for a moment, making sure they had seen it, then dropped it back under his armour. He turned, nodded to his companions, and started to make his way back towards the palace doors. The woman and the dog joined him, one on either side, and Ulfric noticed with some confusion that he murmured something to each of them – the dog, too – as they walked.

They reached the doors, and the guards opened them. And something made Ulfric stand again, and call out across the hall.

'Dragonborn. Talos guide you.'

The elf turned back, pausing for a moment in the doorway. He dipped his head, stepped forwards, and closed the door behind him.

Galmar shook himself, like a dog emerging from water. 'And I thought I was too old to see anything else that could surprise me.'

Ulfric turned to him. 'Well? Do you think I made a mistake?'

'Gods, no. Better endure an hour in the same room as Tullius than be wiped out by dragons.'

'Not the council. Letting him join us.'

Galmar stared at him. 'You were the one talking about how much we needed him on our side.'

'We do. We also need to know he can be trusted.'

'Do you trust him?'

Ulfric considered the question, pursed his lips, and shook his head.

'No. I don't trust him. Not yet, at least. But I do believe him. And for now, that will have to be enough.'

* * *

 **I know Arvenrior's being a bit of a distant figure at the moment, but next chapter, you'll get to learn a bit more about what kind of person he is... meanwhile, I struggle with trying to work out what kind of person Ulfric is. I hope I'm getting him in-character. Writing his friendship with Galmar was pretty fun, I really like the respect and companionship between these two.**

 **Next chapter should be up soon. Thanks for reading!**


	3. The One Who Brought Truth

CHAPTER THREE – THE ONE WHO BROUGHT TRUTH

Being back in High Hrothgar was strange, to say the least. And the circumstances made it stranger still.

It had been many long, bitter years since Ulfric had turned his back on the Greybeards' way of life. He knew that had he stayed, he would have been… _happy_ wasn't the right word, but he would have been content. He had always respected the Greybeards' tranquility, their wisdom, and there had been a time when he wanted more than anything to possess it too. Those days had passed – he knew he could never have sat back and watched Skyrim suffer from afar, never interfering – but entering the ancient monastery still felt like coming home.

He regretted, suddenly, not having come back here before. The Greybeards might have been willing to open their doors to one who had once been one of their own, even one who had turned their back on them and followed a path leading to that thing the Greybeards had more disdain for than anything else – conflict. They had told him again and again that he must use the Voice only as a means of reaching enlightenment, and here he was, using it to help him fight the Empire. In a way, his power over the Voice had been what started this war, since he'd used it to defeat Torygg.

All the same, they might have let him return. It would have been pleasant to come here at any other time, at a time when he could have enjoyed the peace. Not a time when he had to try and make this peace council worth something. His return to High Hrothgar could be no homecoming – it was just another move in the war.

As tradition demanded, he'd walked up on foot, Galmar at his side. No doubt the Imperials would ignore the ancient custom of pilgrimage and come up on horseback. The Dragonborn's dog had been sitting outside the gates of the monastery when Ulfric arrived. It jumped to its feet as Ulfric opened the door, scurried inside, and bounded off in the direction of one of the corridors, returning a few seconds later with the Dragonborn and one of the Greybeards in tow.

 _There's something odd about that dog,_ Ulfric thought vaguely, before focusing his attention onto the newcomers. Arvenrior Storm-Watcher looked the same as ever, though Ulfric noticed his armour appeared to have been recently polished. His companion Ulfric recognised after a few seconds of concentration, and he inclined his head towards the elderly Nord. 'Master Arngeir.'

'Jarl Ulfric.' There was no missing the tone of disappointment in Arngeir's voice, the tone of a teacher talking to a hot-headed pupil who had let them down. 'You are welcome back to High Hrothgar, if you come in peace.'

He held out his hands. Ulfric understood instantly, and pulled his axe from his belt, pressing it into his former mentor's palms. Galmar hesitated, but at Ulfric's meaningful stare, he sighed and reluctantly passed over his battleaxe. Arngeir looked at the weapons for a moment as if they were venomous snakes, then nodded. 'I will put these out of sight and reach until a treaty has been agreed. Will you show them through, Dragonborn?'

The elf dipped his head and gestured for Ulfric and Galmar to follow him. 'Thank you for coming.'

'Is Tullius here yet?' Ulfric asked him.

The corn-coloured braids flew from side to side as Storm-Watcher shook his head. 'You're the first to arrive.'

'How many others are coming?' Galmar demanded.

'Tullius, for certain. I managed to persuade him. The fact that you'd already agreed to come helped there.' Storm-Watcher gave Ulfric a quick smile. 'I'm grateful. Really.'

'Who else?' Galmar pressed him.

'I think Tullius plans to bring Elisif.' The elf looked awkward, but Ulfric didn't react. 'Jarl Balgruuf will be here. And Delphine and Esbern from the Blades.'

'The Blades?' Ulfric echoed, raising his eyebrows. 'So, they're still around after all.'

Storm-Watcher chuckled and tapped his armour. 'Where do you think I got this from? There aren't very many at the moment, but if there was ever a time when Skyrim needed an order of dragonslayers, it's now.'

They had reached the chamber where, it appeared, the meeting was to be held. The other Greybeards were standing around the walls, and the Dragonborn's housecarl was lingering behind the seat at the head of the table. Storm-Watcher gestured for Ulfric and Galmar to sit on the right-hand side of the table, then hurried off towards the monastery entrance. He returned some minutes later, accompanied by a woman in identical armour to his, and a man almost as old as Arngeir and with the same careful, intelligent eyes. After a short wait and some strained but polite conversation, Arngeir brought in Jarl Balgruuf, who nodded warily to Ulfric but smiled warmly at Storm-Watcher. It made Ulfric wonder - could Balgruuf be the one who'd made the Dragonborn his Thane? It would make sense, after the elf had killed that dragon at the Whiterun watchtower. And if Storm-Watcher held true to his promise to join the Stormcloaks, it might well provide them with some leverage over Whiterun.

Finally, the sound of footsteps indicated the arrival of the Imperial delegation. Tullius led them, and behind him came Legate Rikke. Ulfric felt a small sliver of sorrow lodge in his brain at the sight of his old friend and comrade, and he was glad that while the nod she gave him was the curt one of a soldier facing a sworn enemy, it was also the kind only given to an enemy you respected. Ulfric returned the gesture, and turned his attention to the rest of Tullius's party. Yes, there came Elisif, as the Dragonborn had predicted, shooting Ulfric a look of pure hatred. He let her glare. He'd had plenty of them directed at him in his time; after a while, they began to glance off you.

That was everyone, then, and Ulfric was about to turn his attention away from the door when a tall figure in black and gold robes came through on Elisif's heels.

Ulfric felt his heart freeze as if it had been hit by an Ice Form Shout.

Those robes. That triangular symbol fixed to the belt. That yellow skin, so similar, too similar, to that of the man sitting on his left. Those eyes, eyes so utterly devoid of all compassion. They represented that time in that cell, those four walls that had enclosed his own personal plane of Oblivion. They represented every lightning spell, every lash of the whip, every ache of the manacles, every day gone without food and every night consumed by dreams dark as his captors' hearts. They represented his shame, the guilt that would never leave him, the terrible secret he could never tell anyone, not even Galmar, the burden of knowledge he carried every second of his life, the reason he fought, because he had to make amends for what he'd done, for the fact that it was his fault, all his fault.

And that face. The face that had laughed at his torment.

He clenched his fists so hard that his nails bit into his skin, and breathed in long and deep. The people around him were speaking, but the words could not penetrate his mind. It seemed impossible to be aware of anything except that one of the very same elves who had torn his life apart sat in this room, invited to this council.

'No!' He leaped to his feet, the blood pounding in his ears. 'You insult us by bringing _her_ to this negotiation? Your chief Talos-hunter?'

He heard mutters from Rikke and Balgruuf, and a growl of agreement from Galmar, but he paid them no heed. He rounded on Tullius, who glowered back.

'I have every right to be at this negotiation,' Elenwen said, in that serpent-smooth voice. 'I need to ensure that nothing is agreed to here that violates the terms of the White-Gold Concordat. '

'She's part of the Imperial delegation,' Tullius snapped. 'You can't dictate who I bring to this council.'

'Please!' Arngeir held up his hands. 'If we have to negotiate the terms of the negotiation, we will never get anywhere! Perhaps,' the Greybeard suggested, 'this would be a good time to get the Dragonborn's input into this matter.'

Every head turned towards Storm-Watcher. Ulfric's was one of them, though he dreaded what he would hear. The Dragonborn might seem almost like a Nord at first glance, with that hair and warpaint and build, but a single look at his skin and eyes and ears betrayed him. He was an Altmer. He had more in common with Elenwen than he did with anyone else here. Ulfric prepared the words to appeal to Storm-Watcher, to persuade him that if he wanted the Stormcloaks to remain at this council, he had to force her out.

But what Ulfric saw was not what he had expected. He didn't know what he had expected, but it had not been seeing the Dragonborn sitting with his hands curled into fists in his lap, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, his jaw pressed closed. His housecarl had moved closer to him and placed her hand on his shoulder – whether she intended to comfort him or hold him steady or both, Ulfric couldn't say. Even the dog was on its feet, a low growl emanating from its throat.

Ulfric looked at Storm-Watcher's face, and saw the same hatred and horror there that he was sure had been written over his own features when he set eyes on Elenwen. The elf did not lift his head as he whispered, 'Get out.'

In the quiet, the softly spoken words were deafening. Tullius frowned, Delphine looked satisfied, and Arngeir looked between Elenwen and the Dragonborn with worry stamped on his face.

'Now, Dragonborn.' Elenwen leaned forwards so as to see him better. 'You and I are of the most highborn race. I'm sure you're willing to look past your concerns for your… _destiny,_ and consider the needs of your people.'

Storm-Watcher's eyes snapped open. 'I'm not one of your people,' he snarled. 'We are not the same species. I am an Altmer, but you have no right to that name. You make me ashamed to be one. Now get out. You have no place here.'

Elenwen's eyebrows were almost disappearing into her hairline. 'Come, now, I was informed that you would be on this council as a neutral figure. Is this a personal disagreement, Dragonborn? Because if so –'

'It _is_ a personal disagreement. But not just for me. As far as I can tell, there are…' Storm-Watcher's eyes swept the room. 'Four people in here whose lives you've tried to destroy. This council can hardly remain neutral if you're here angering them with your mere presence. And let me tell you, I'm angered.'

Ulfric scanned the inhabitants of the chamber, as the elf had done. It was common enough knowledge that he'd been a Thalmor prisoner for a time, so he counted as one. The two Blades, Delphine and Esbern, made two more. Galmar might hate the Thalmor, but they'd never done anything to him directly. No, Storm-Watcher himself must be the fourth – but what was it the Thalmor had done to him?

'As I am here on the request of General Tullius, my expulsion from this council would count as a concession to these terrorists.' Elenwen waved her hand in Ulfric's direction. 'So, unless you wish to be seen as a supporter of weak fools who worship a false God-'

Storm-Watcher surged to his feet and slammed his hands down on the table. The stone surface and the metal of his gauntlets let out a crack like the firing of a crossbow, a sound that made Elenwen flinch back, Balgruuf start nervously, and Elisif shrink into her seat.

' _Hi fen lif!'_ he roared.

And the entire chamber shook.

Ulfric knew from experience that when a truly powerful Voice-wielder spoke even the most harmless word, it could do this, stir the earth and make the heavens tremble. In the rare occasions he'd heard any of the Greybeards other than Arngeir say anything, the ground beneath his feet had always shuddered. This was the same feeling. Ulfric translated them in his mind. _You will leave._

The words rebounded off the walls, sounding again and again. When they faded, no one spoke. Silence descended, so thick and strong it would have seemed like a crime to break it.

Then the Dragonborn's housecarl – what had he said her name was? Lydia? – stepped forwards and gently took hold of his arm.

'Arven,' was all she said.

It was just one word, a nickname, Ulfric guessed, but it was enough. The tension drained from the Dragonborn's shoulders, the fury died from his eyes, and he dropped back into his seat.

'Sorry,' he said. 'That was unintentional. But, Elenwen – leave. Now.'

Even the Thalmor First Emissary for Skyrim knew when she was beaten. Elenwen left her seat, clearly struggling to keep her composure in the face of what she had just witnessed.

As she left, Ulfric kept his eyes on the Dragonborn. If he'd still had any suspicions that Arvenrior Storm-Watcher was a Thalmor spy, they left him then. Only strong, honest anger could have made him forget his mortal nature then, drop into the rage, and the tongue, of the dragons. There could be no doubt now. Storm-Watcher was telling the truth.

Ulfric hated the High Elves because they reminded him of the people he had fought against for most of his life, the people who had broken him. And yet here was a High Elf who hated the Thalmor perhaps as much as he did.

Ulfric loathed the High Elves. He respected anyone who called themselves an enemy of the Thalmor.

So what in Talos's name was he supposed to make of this man?

There was no more time to dwell on it. Tullius accepted the elf's apology. Arngeir carefully soothed the situation. Galmar gave Ulfric an encouraging nod, indicating that he thought they should start presenting their demands. Ulfric made them, and the council began.

* * *

'Markarth for Riften.' Galmar collected his battleaxe and grasped it as if about to attack someone there and then. 'And he's supposed to be on our side.'

'He was supposed to be there as a neutral arbiter,' Ulfric replied. 'If he'd made his support for us clear, Tullius might have walked out. Besides, there are considerable benefits to having Markarth.'

'Aye, but we gain nothing. One hold for another. He should have offered them Winterhold, or –'

'He didn't ask us to compensate for Karthwasten.' _Not that we have anything to compensate for._

'Only because he didn't have any idea what happened there. He said so himself.' Galmar stared. 'You're defending the elf.'

'I think, in the circumstances, what was agreed was as good as could be hoped for.' Ulfric allowed himself a smile. 'Besides, I gained some satisfaction from seeing Elenwen cowed like that.'

Galmar let out a throaty laugh. 'Now that I agree with. Suppose it's too much to hope for that she got herself killed by a frost troll on the way down. Anyway, time to get back to Windhelm and arrange a new Jarl for Markarth.'

He reached out to push open the door, then faltered. The Dragonborn's dog was sitting in front of the door, and somehow its expression conveyed a clear message that it didn't want them to leave.

'How did it get there?' Galmar glanced back at the room where the meeting was still in progress. The dog had still been sitting at Storm-Watcher's feet when they'd left, the terms agreed on. The Greybeards had brought out the Imperials' weapons first, so Tullius, Rikke and Elisif had already departed, leaving Storm-Watcher to debate his dragon capture with Balgruuf and the Blades. The dog must have snuck past Ulfric and Galmar while they'd been waiting for their own weapons to be returned. Now it was firmly parked in front of the way out.

'Move,' Galmar grunted, pointing away from the door.

The dog looked at them and didn't budge. Ulfric was willing to swear that it actually raised its brows.

'Get out of it!' Galmar tried to shove it out of the way. It wriggled out of his grip with the agility of an eel.

'There's another door,' Ulfric said, making towards it, but the dog darted out of its position and planted itself in front of that door in the space of a few seconds.

'It can't stop both of us at once.' Galmar's jaw was clenched with frustration. 'If you go through that door, I'll-'

'Wait.' Ulfric held up a hand. 'Maybe the Dragonborn wants us to stay behind. Maybe he has something to say.'

'You think the dog's smart enough to understand that?'

'There's something about this dog.'

Galmar looked at it, staring at them with a look of clear amusement in its eyes, and nodded. 'True.'

So they waited, and eventually Balgruuf emerged from the room, stopped in front of Ulfric long enough to say, 'It's arranged,' and carried on out of the door to reunite with his escort of guards. The dog made no move to stop him, but when Galmar attempted to follow, there was a blur of grey, and a large furred mass was blocking his path again.

The two Blades came afterwards, the woman's face taut as a bowstring. She strode past Ulfric without looking at him, and he had a feeling she would have kicked the dog aside if it hadn't stood up to let her past. The door slammed shut after her.

'Wonder who pissed her off,' Galmar muttered.

Almost as soon as he'd said it, voices floated down the corridor towards them , those of the Dragonborn and his housecarl. The distress in both voices was clear, and Ulfric strained his ears to make out the words.

'And they think I'm the kind of man who murders in cold blood. Do they take me for some sort of assassin?'

'No, they think you're more like them than you are, that's all. We can't deal with it now.'

'But once Alduin's dead? Or if I don't come back? What stops them going after him themselves?'

'The Greybeards wouldn't let them.' A pause. 'Neither would I.'

Another silence. 'Thank you. But it hurts that they don't realise…'

'Arven. Don't worry about it now. One thing at a time.'

The voices were growing louder and clearer; Ulfric guessed that Storm-Watcher and his housecarl were approaching. A moment later they rounded the corner.

'Dragonborn.' Galmar took a step towards him. 'Your dog doesn't seem to want us to leave.'

'Gods, I forgot.' The elf's eyes widened. 'I was going to ask you to stay behind, Jarl Ulfric. There's… something I need to talk to you about.' He glanced at the dog. 'Thanks for remembering for me, Barbas.'

The shaggy tail wagged.

'Just him alone?' Galmar demanded. 'What for?'

'He's not going to stab him in the back,' the housecarl said, sounding irritated. 'He doesn't even have his sword.'

'He has his Voice,' Galmar countered.

'Which I'm not going to use,' Storm-Watcher replied. 'It won't take long.'

'What exactly is it you want to talk about?' Ulfric asked him.

The elf bit his lip. 'There's something I knew that you don't. And it's something you deserve to know.'

Ulfric decided that there was nothing to lose. Hadn't he felt, when the Dragonborn appeared in the Palace of the Kings, that there was something he'd not been saying? He nodded. 'Make it quick.'

Storm-Watcher nodded and pushed open the door. Galmar moved to follow, but Ulfric held up a hand. 'Wait here.'

Galmar looked uneasy, but Ulfric realised suddenly that he wasn't afraid, or even worried. He had no idea what this elf was, but he was no assassin.

He followed the elf outside, and stood on the steps outside the monastery. He was fairly certain this was the first time he'd ever been alone with an elf since they'd tortured him while he was their captive. He was glad he had the cold as an excuse for his shiver.

'So.' He pulled his fur-trimmed coat a little closer around him. 'What do you have to say to me, Dragonborn?'

The elf hurried down the steps, pulled a key from a small pouch strung around his neck, and unlocked the chest that stood in front of the path leading down the mountain. He rummaged around inside it for a moment, then made a small noise of satisfaction and pulled a thin, leather-bound book from within it. He shut the chest, twisted the key in the lock, and returned to Ulfric, bringing the book with him.

'Recently, I had to infiltrate the Thalmor Embassy,' he said. 'You'll be glad to know I caused a fair amount of destruction. But I also found… things.'

He tossed the book from hand to hand, and Ulfric caught sight of the symbol on the cover. A stylised, triangular shape. The Thalmor emblem.

'And one of the things I found was this. I probably shouldn't have read it, and I'm sorry for letting my curiosity get the better of me. But I think you should read it too, because… well, you'll see.'

He held out the book. Ulfric took it, pulled it open quickly so that he didn't have to look at that hated symbol on the cover, and read the words on the first page.

 _Thalmor Dossier: Ulfric Stormcloak_

His eyes widened, and he shot a look at the Dragonborn. Storm-Watcher was clasping his hands in front of his chest so tightly that Ulfric had a feeling that under his gauntlets, his knuckles had turned from yellow to pale cream.

Ulfric gathered his nerve and read on.

 _Status: Asset (uncooperative), Dormant, Emissary Level Approval._

'Asset?' Ulfric scanned the page again, half-expected to see the inexplicable word change into something more applicable. It didn't.

'Keep reading,' Storm-Watcher said quietly.

 _Description: Jarl of Windhelm, leader of Stormcloak rebellion, Imperial Legion veteran._

 _Background: Ulfric first came to our attention during the First War Against the Empire, when he was taken as a prisoner of war during the campaign for the White-Gold Tower. Under interrogation, we learned of his potential value (son of the Jarl of Windhelm) and he was assigned as an asset to the interrogator, who is now First Emissary Elenwen. He was made to believe information obtained during his interrogation was crucial in the capture of the Imperial City (the city had in fact fallen before he had broken), and then allowed to escape._

Ulfric stopped. Flicked his eyes backwards to the start of the first sentence. Read and reread.

He'd read things about people feeling like the ground had been pulled out from under their feet after some great shock. It wasn't true. He felt none of that. Nothing changed – the ground was solid as ever, the snow kept whirling, the wind kept up its faint howling. But everything Ulfric had known fell apart.

They had lied to him. It was not his fault.

He closed his eyes, needing to block out the world so he could focus on his thoughts. Something in him tried to feel joy. After all, didn't that mean he was innocent? That he hadn't been responsible for the fall of the City? Yes, that was a relief. But he had gone so many years blaming himself, and… it had all been for nothing.

'You didn't know, did you?' Storm-Watcher asked.

Ulfric shook his head. He couldn't speak. So he read on.

 _After the war, contact was established and he has proven his worth as an asset._

'Contact was established?' Ulfric hissed through his teeth, regaining the power to speak in his fury.

'I wasn't quite sure what to make of that part,' Storm-Watcher admitted.

Ulfric rounded on him, gripping the book so tightly his fingers ached. 'You think I've been working with them?'

'Gods, no.' Storm-Watcher shook his head vigorously. 'I don't think anyone agrees to work with the people who tortured them. But what do they mean by that? I get the asset part – '

'And what do you mean by that?'

The elf glanced from side to side, as if hoping someone would appear to save him from this situation. 'I mean – you'd best keep reading.'

And Ulfric, though fuming, did so.

 _The so-called Markarth Incident was particularly valuable from the point of view of our strategic goals in Skyrim, although it resulted in Ulfric becoming generally uncooperative to direct contact._

 _Operational Notes: Direct contact remains a possibility (under extreme circumstances), but in general the asset should be considered dormant. As long as the civil war proceeds in its current indecisive fashion, we should remain hands-off. The incident at Helgen is an example where an exception had to be made - obviously Ulfric's death would have dramatically increased the chance of an Imperial victory and thus harmed our overall position in Skyrim._

 _(Note: The coincidental intervention of the dragon at Helgen is still under scrutiny. The obvious conclusion is that whoever is behind the dragons also has an interest in the continuation of the war, but we should not assume therefore that their goals align with our own.) A Stormcloak victory is also to be avoided, however, so even indirect aid to the Stormcloaks must be carefully managed._

Ulfric flicked few the remaining pages, but there was nothing more except descriptions of his physical appearance, combat style, known strategies, and 'associates,' including Galmar and a handful of other high-ranking Stormcloak officers. He slammed the dossier shut, and stood there with it clasped between his hands, breathing hard.

Manipulated. Manipulated all this time. By them. The elves. The torturers, the oppressors, the demons from Oblivion who'd haunted his nightmares for so many years. He'd known that they wanted to extend this war, everyone in Skyrim understood that. But to see such cruel, heartless words set down in irreversible ink… it shook him, cut him to the core.

He didn't regret playing into their hands. He'd have done this anyway, and he had done too much to turn back. What was it he had told Galmar that day Storm-Watcher had turned up at the palace? _I fight so all the fighting I've already done hasn't been for nothing._ And it was true. Besides, once he'd freed Skyrim from the Empire, he'd be more than ready to face the Dominion. The war was only beneficial to them while there was no conclusion. The dossier admitted that much.

He forced himself to read through it again. So he would never have died at Helgen. They would have stepped in to – not save him. But ensure that he was not killed. That was staggering enough. And his fury rose up again at the thought of watching all his soldiers dying under the axe, and then not being allowed to join them.

The part about Helgen at least made sense. But that one sentence. _After the war, contact was established and he has proven his worth as an asset._

Yes, he understood now what Storm-Watcher had meant. He was an asset to the Thalmor in that he was helping them keep the war going. But _contact was established?_

And then he realised. Manipulation. More of it.

He turned to look at Storm-Watcher, and decided it would be better to give the elf the full truth, rather than allow him to leap to the wrong conclusions.

'I know what it means,' he said carefully. 'You're aware that at the time of the Markarth Incident, as it's now called, I was not Jarl of Windhelm. My father-' Ulfric broke off, an unexpected wave of grief sweeping over him. He'd thought he was long since past mourning his father's death, that he had reconciled himself with the loss and contented himself with the thought that they would meet again in Sovngarde. But now, with his emotions in such turmoil, his sorrow came flooding back. He paused, startled to find that his throat had grown tight. He forced himself to focus; the elf was the last person he wanted to cry in front of.

Gods. He hadn't cried in years. He'd been tempted to, but he never had. He couldn't start now.

'My father,' Ulfric continued, 'was on the throne of Windhelm then. And though he mistrusted the Thalmor, he believed it would be unwise to forbid them from entering the city, for fear of igniting more conflict than was needed. They walked the streets of Windhelm freely, when they chose to do so, as they do in Markarth now.'

He breathed in deeply. 'I would often see them hauling citizens through the streets, taking them off to be interrogated… there was one, a silver-haired bastard called Ilovarno, who was in charge of arresting them. I would challenge him, and he would tell me this citizen had been found with an amulet of Talos in his home, and then he'd add, 'If you have any disagreement with my actions, why don't you appeal to the Empire?' And I did. Wrote them letters, marched into Solitude to talk to the commanders. They did nothing. And sometimes Ilovarno would say, 'Well, there's only a minority of Nords who worship the false God,' so I'd travel around Skyrim and do what I could to encourage people to stay true to Talos…'

He could almost see the realisation dawn in Storm-Watcher's head. 'You think he was trying to get you to stir things up? Make people see you as the hero of Talos, and the Empire see you as an enemy?' He bit his lip. 'That would be very like them. And it explains why they say they established contact. Why they talk about you as if you were some kind of… almost a sleeper agent. As far as they were concerned, you were working for them, you just didn't know it.'

Ulfric laughed bitterly. 'So all of this was brought about by them.'

'You were still the one who challenged Torygg,' the elf said quietly. 'You gained the support of the Jarls. You inspired thousands. Including my father. And me. The Thalmor did none of that.'

Yes, that was true. And it was some small comfort.

'But the Thalmor did bring you here, just as much as I did.' The thought occurred to Ulfric suddenly, as he remembered Storm-Watcher's fury as his eyes fell on Elenwen. 'They have given you reason to hate them, too.'

Storm-Watcher's jaw clenched. 'Perhaps not so much as you, but…'

He looked away. Ulfric hesitated, then ploughed on. 'What did they do?'

For a few seconds, the elf was silent. Then he sighed, ran a hand through his long yellow hair, and began to speak. 'I told you that I was adopted. My parents – my blood parents – drowned when I was four. They were fishermen, and their boat went down in a storm. I was lucky that my father's friend was with them. He was an Argonian. He couldn't save my parents, but he was able to tie me to his back and swim. He found a boat, and the Gods must have blessed me, because two of the people on that boat happened to be a Nord couple who wanted a child and couldn't have one.'

'And they took you in?'

'They did. How many people are there in this world who could look at a ragged, half-drowned boy, not even their own species, and be willing to take him in? People with big hearts are the only ones who could have done it, and Tormaer and Svada Storm-Watcher… they were that.'

Ulfric frowned. 'If you were adopted by Nords, why did you grow up on the Summerset Isles?'

'Because my parents lived there.' Storm-Watcher shrugged. 'They were sellswords, mercenaries. They'd travelled all over Tamriel, and they both fell in love with the Isles. Not the people, just the place. When they decided to settle down, they took the risk of living there. And when they took me in, they felt they had to stay, because they wanted me to grow up with some of my own people's culture.'

An alarm bell tolled in Ulfric's head. 'You consider the Altmer to be your true culture?'

'No. It's one of my cultures. I don't have any one culture.' He lifted a hand and traced the streaks of red warpaint on either side of his face. 'My father gave me these when I was thirteen. Two marks on each side, you see? To show that there are two sides of me. Except that now it turns out I'm Dragonborn, I've technically got three sides now. Maybe I need to find a fourth, to make it even.'

He chuckled, and Ulfric, to his surprise, found himself smiling. 'They trained you to fight?'

Storm-Watcher nodded. 'My mother was an archer, and my father used a greatsword, same as me. I learned how to shoot, but I… I sort of wanted to use a weapon that seemed as Nordic as possible. I ended up being pretty good at it, I guess.' He let out a long sigh. 'I owe everything to my parents. They taught me so much. And then…'

His gaze flickered away from Ulfric's face, fixing on the huge swathe of sky beyond the edge of the mountain. 'I went out hunting one day. About six months ago, now. I liked to do that, sometimes, just go out on my own and bring back some food, and there was this deer I'd seen, a stag with huge dark antlers… I tracked him for three days. Brought him down on the evening of the third, and walked home on the fourth. And when I reached our home, I found the door half-ripped off the hinges and the furniture strewn everywhere and blood on the walls and my parents gone.'

Ulfric bowed his head. He could see what was coming.

'I went into Cloudrest and asked everyone I could find. And of course, they'd been arrested. Talos worship. Imprisoned. Interrogated.' He drew in a husky, trembling breath. 'Executed.'

His voice cracked on the final word, and Ulfric knew that when he closed his eyes, he did it to hold back tears.

'I was told they killed my mother first,' he whispered. 'So my father watched his wife die. And when they took him to the block, he shouted to everyone watching, 'Find my son. Tell him to leave. The people of these Isles are not his people anymore.' And that was why I left. Because I wouldn't live among my own kind if they could do things like that and not care about them. And it's why I decided to join you. Because my parents died for what they believed, and I won't let that happen to anyone else.'

He looked back up at Ulfric. 'I'm young for an elf, you know. Twenty-four. Might seem like a decent age to a human, but when you put it into perspective, when I lost my parents I was still that frightened little boy they rescued from the sea.'

He brushed a hand across his eyes, swallowed hard, and fell silent.

So this was the reason, and it made so much sense it hurt. No wonder he had let the Voice speak for him so powerfully when angered by Elenwen. No wonder, too, that he had asked to join the Stormcloaks. No wonder that he took pride in that amulet of Talos he wore, that mark of defiance.

The same amulet Ulfric wore.

He looked at the elf, and he found himself saying words he'd never thought he'd address to anyone with that skin colour. 'I'm sorry.'

Surprise flickered over the warpaint-streaked face, and Storm-Watcher dipped his head. 'Thank you.'

'Is it hard? Belonging to the same race that killed them.'

' _Hard_ doesn't really come into it.' Storm-Watcher shrugged. 'It's hard to describe how it makes me feel. Sometimes I feel like the fact that we have the same coloured skin and the same shaped ears and so on doesn't make any difference, that we don't have anything in common. And sometimes I think that it means something important, because I'm Altmer, they're Altmer, and I don't understand how can see that what they're doing is wrong and they can't. But most times, it just… it just makes me sad.'

He finished with a shrug and a rueful smile. And something about the simplicity and the honesty of this final sentence made Ulfric feel certain that he was telling the truth.

'How would you feel,' the elf said suddenly, 'if the Thalmor were Nords?'

Ulfric's first thought was to tell him no Nord would ever act like them. Then he stopped, considering the question properly. 'I'd feel the same way about them as I do about the Nords who refuse to fight for their freedom. I'd be ashamed to share their blood.'

'And that,' the Dragonborn said, 'is why I wish to fight with you.'

They looked at each other, and at the book that had brought these secrets out into the light, and Ulfric felt something completely unexpected – a sense of kinship.

'I've taken up enough of your time.' The Dragonborn gave another of his shallow bows. 'I'd best head off to Whiterun and see about capturing that dragon.'

'And then you go to face Alduin.'

'Yes.'

'Then may the Gods watch over you.'

He smiled. 'And over you.'

With a swift nod, he turned, ran up the steps, and pulled open the door to the monastery. Ulfric waited, and a moment later, Galmar emerged, his brows raised. 'What did he want?'

Ulfric swallowed, glanced down at the book, and almost passed it over to his friend. Something stopped his hand, and he tucked it inside his fur jacket instead. 'I'll tell you soon.'

Galmar shrugged. 'Well, his housecarl's not too bad. Talked to her while you were outside with the elf. She takes her job seriously, says he's a good man.' He grinned. 'Obviously fancies him.'

'You think so?'

'She's doing a bad job of hiding it. I almost told her she could do better than an elf, but something told me she might have hit me.'

Ulfric frowned. 'I think that man's an elf in body only.'

'Elf in blood, elf in mind,' Galmar said firmly.

Only five minutes ago, Ulfric would have nodded, and there would have been conviction behind the movement. The thought of any Nord woman even considering courting an Altmer man would have made him want to roar some sense into her. And he would have snorted at the mere suggestion that any elf could be considered a good man. Now, though, he did not nod. And those angry thoughts did not even enter his mind.

'I'm not so sure, Galmar,' he said. 'I'm not so sure at all.'

* * *

 **Whew, this one was tough to write. The Thalmor dossier, by the way, is actually in the game, and this is just my interpretation of its meaning - I know some have taken it to mean that Ulfric's actually a Thalmor spy, but I think that's unlikely. A big thank you to AedricDaedra, ShoutFinder and Verbluffen, who helped me sort through my theories, and suggested a few of their own. If anyone wants some clarification on this part, feel free to ask.**

 **So, Arvenrior's backstory is revealed (for those who haven't read _Komaanaluntiid,_ anyway.) What do you make of him so far? There's still plenty to learn about him - it's rather hard expressing his personality through these brief conversations, so I'm looking forward to getting down to that properly in the next few chapters.**

 **Thanks for reading!**


	4. The Warrior Who Used Words

**I'm going to make a few slight tweaks to the actual progression of game events in the Civil War in this chapter. I hope no one minds, it's nothing too major.**

* * *

CHAPTER FOUR – THE WARRIOR WHO USED WORDS

Sometimes, Ulfric liked to walk around his city. In the evenings, when the city administration and the briefings about the progress of the war were done, it could be a relief to don a warm cloak and set out into the streets. Often Galmar would accompany him, officially as a bodyguard, but really just to give him the company of a friend. But if, as tonight, Galmar was caught up in his duties, it was no hardship to go alone, and no danger. No one would dare attack him on the streets, not when there were guards posted at every corner. Only if Ulfric strayed into the Grey Quarter would he be at risk, but he had no reason to go there, and he never intended to.

The walks calmed him. Seeing the ordinary lives of Skyrim's people going on, regardless of the war that he had devoted so many difficult hours to winning, reminded him just what it was that he was fighting for. The way the eyes of the blacksmith's apprentice grew round with awe as he passed, the smiles of welcome the priests in the Temple of Talos gave him, the simple peace of being among his people as if he had none of the heavy responsibilities he carried… it cleared his head.

And it needed clearing now. It was almost a week now since the Dragonborn had held that peace council and given Ulfric the Thalmor dossier, yet the book's contents still haunted his every waking moment, and occasionally they even crept into his dreams. He'd summoned up the courage to tell Galmar once they'd reached Windhelm, and to his relief, his old friend hadn't seemed troubled by the idea that the Thalmor had always been manipulating the war – and Ulfric himself. 'Once you're on the throne of Skyrim, we'll show those elves what comes of thinking they can control Nords,' Galmar had said – only with far more expletives in the sentence.

Ulfric had come to terms with what the book had told him. He was even grateful for it. He had not, after all, caused the downfall of the Imperial City, and everything that had followed, and that eased a burden that had weighed on his heart for years. And he knew more now of what the elves were planning – not to defeat him, but to use him. Well, he didn't intend to be used. He intended to win the war with the Empire, and then turn his attention to the elves.

Thinking of elves, of course, brought Ulfric's thoughts back to Arvenrior Storm-Watcher. The word from Whiterun was that his capture of the dragon had been a success, and that he'd left the city on the creature's back three days earlier. Ulfric had no idea how long it took to slay the Firstborn of Akatosh, but he knew that, along with the rest of Skyrim, he was starting to worry. The dragon attacks had eased in the past few days – probably because the dragons were waiting to see if their leader returned alive – but there was no doubt that they would continue if Storm-Watcher failed to bring down Alduin.

And yet Ulfric couldn't deny that he was worried for another reason, namely that he feared for Storm-Watcher's life. His head said it was because he did not want to risk losing such a potentially powerful and valuable soldier. And his heart told him that it was because he had come to respect the Altmer who was really a Nord. That man had a warrior's heart, there could be no denying it, and Ulfric knew that no one with such spirit deserved to die.

The thought made him purse his lips. The Dragonborn had been chosen by the Gods, but if they had made the wrong decision, and their champion could not defeat Alduin, the world was doomed. The people he saw around him now as he walked the streets could be killed, their children slain, their homes burned to ash. It made the war he fought seem suddenly insignificant.

He had reached the gates of the city. For some time, he stood beside the brazier that burned a short distance from them, looking out at the sky beyond the wall. Somewhere, a golden-skinned elf with a vast sword was facing, had faced, or was about to face, an enemy evil as the Thalmor, and a hundred times as powerful. Ulfric hoped with all his heart that the same elf would soon walk through the gates of Windhelm, ready to pledge himself to the Stormcloak cause.

Something made Ulfric turn, to look at the path that led down into the Grey Quarter. He couldn't help but wonder what the elves there thought of Arvenrior Storm-Watcher. Perhaps they were glad to have one of their own kind, or close to it, the prophesied saviour of the world. But despite the fact that Storm-Watcher's conversation in the Palace of the Kings had been heard by no one other than himself, Ulfric, Galmar, the housecarl, and the dog (Ulfric had no idea why he was counting the dog, but he had a feeling he should leave it in), the news that the Dragonborn intended to join the Stormcloak army had spread across Windhelm anyway. Maybe they felt the same way about Storm-Watcher as Ulfric felt about Nords who fought for the Empire – that he was a traitor.

Still, Ulfric found it hard to care what the Dark Elves thought.

He was about to turn away from the alley leading to the Grey Quarter when he noticed a familiar shape round a corner of it. A grey dog with long fur and a peculiarly intelligent expression.

 _Can it be?_ Ulfric took a step forwards. The dog stopped, seeming to notice him, then turned and barked sharply into the alleyway. Almost as if calling to someone. Surely, there was only one person who it could possibly be.

And it was him. Striding out of the alley with his armour shining like that of one of the Knights of the Nine, sword strapped over his back, warpaint bright red on his cheeks, his eyes bright and a smile stamped on his face. The Dragonborn. The elf who was not an elf.

Ulfric was surprised by the surge of pleasure he felt as the elf emerged from the alleyway. He knew that mostly it came from relief, because if Storm-Watcher had returned, unscathed, then Alduin must be dead and the threat must be over. And of course it came from his delight at having the power of the Dragonborn promised to his army. But there was no way to deny that part of it came from the simple happiness that comes with laying eyes on someone you respect. Even like.

He reminded himself that the elf was really a Nord. That was the easiest way to look at it, anyway. There could be no harm in coming to respect and like a fellow Nord.

'Dragonborn!' he called.

The smile on the gold-skinned face grew broader, and Storm-Watcher quickened his pace. 'Jarl Ulfric,' he said, reaching the brazier. 'It's good to see you.'

'Better still to see you. Alive.' Ulfric raised his eyebrows. 'Is it done?'

The Altmer dipped his head. 'It's done. Alduin's gone. For now, at least.'

Ulfric felt a twinge of uneasiness. 'He could return?'

'Maybe someday in the future. But not in our time, or that of our children. Many ages will pass before there's any possibility of the World-Eater's return.' Storm-Watcher shrugged, still smiling. 'So I was told, anyway.'

'Then it seems we have much to be thankful for.'

The elf nodded. 'The dragons themselves aren't gone, but I daresay the attacks may ease now they don't have Alduin directing them. They'll still be a danger, but not so much as before. And there are people around to deal with them.' He indicated the armour he wore. 'I actually returned yesterday, but I spent most of that day travelling to speak with the Blades. There was a… a matter that needed to be discussed.' His smile grew a little smaller at that, but didn't disappear. 'It's settled now. They'll protect Skyrim from the dragons. The hostile dragons.'

There was a trace of anger behind the last sentence, but Ulfric had a feeling that if he inquired about it, he wouldn't receive an answer. 'Where's your housecarl?'

The smile stayed, but there was a trace of concern in the eyes. 'Lydia was injured capturing the dragon in Whiterun. It's not bad, but she'll need a few days to recover.' He chuckled quietly. 'She had a hard time persuading me it was all right to leave her.'

Ulfric remembered what Galmar had told him after the peace council, about the Nord woman's attraction to the Dragonborn, and decided he might as well question it. 'You're close to her, then?'

The elf let out an awkward laugh, clasping the back of his neck with one hand. 'What can I say? I've always had a bit of a thing for Nord women.' His expression grew more serious as he added, 'I'm not going to start wearing an Amulet of Mara around her right now, but if things keep going the way they are… it's on the cards.'

'They say you should never waste time on courtship,' Ulfric warned him. 'Not in a land as dangerous as Skyrim.'

'We'll see what happens,' Storm-Watcher said firmly, then gave a small, amused snort. 'Never thought I'd be getting romance advice from you, my Jarl.'

The respectful title tacked onto the end of the sentence didn't disguise the teasing tone. Ulfric looked at him in surprise. The Altmer had always come across, before, as a serious character, quiet and reserved – except for when he was spouting Draconic at Elenwen. But it seemed that previous attitude had been caused by the weight of his responsibility weighing on him. With Alduin dead, he seemed younger, less inhibited, more… free.

'I've lived long enough to understand life in Skyrim,' Ulfric said simply.

'I hope to live here long enough to feel the same, before long.' Storm-Watcher clasped his hands together. 'And speaking of Skyrim, I think it's about time I officially became part of the army fighting for it.'

'You're on your way to the Palace, then?'

The elf nodded. 'If you've not had second thoughts about accepting me.'

'None,' Ulfric said, instantly and truthfully. If anything, speaking to Storm-Watcher on the Throat of the World had made him more certain that he needed this man on his side. 'Come, then. Galmar will swear you in.'

He turned to lead the way back to the Palace. Storm-Watcher fell in beside him, the dog padding at his heels.

As they made their way through the streets, Ulfric couldn't help but notice the looks of surprise and, in a few cases, suspicion, that were sent their way. He understood; no doubt he was the last person anyone expected to see out and about in the streets of Windhelm accompanied by a High Elf. But in a few cases, Ulfric saw recognition in the eyes of his citizens, and knew that a fair number of them had heard the stories of a warpaint-wearing, greatsword-wielding Altmer Dragonborn.

Good, he thought. See him. See that I have Akatosh's chosen on my side.

The market appeared to be closing for the evening; the Dark Elf who ran the meat stall was heading past them, hauling a cart containing his wares. The sight made a new question occur to Ulfric, and he turned his head towards his companion. 'What were you doing in the Grey Quarter?'

'I was on my way back from the Argonian assemblage,' Storm-Watcher explained. 'I was visiting some friends there.'

Ulfric frowned. 'In the assemblage?'

'Why not?' The elf shrugged. 'One of the dock workers, Scouts-Many-Marshes, he's the nephew, or cousin, or something like that, of Follows-The-River – that's the Argonian who saved my life when my blood parents drowned.'

'If you intend to keep visiting him, you should take care passing through the Grey Quarter,' Ulfric warned him.

'You think I'm likely to be attacked?'

'The elves there won't thank you for joining my cause.'

Storm-Watcher shrugged. 'I'll risk it.' He hesitated, then added in an oddly light tone, 'It's a bit shabby down there, isn't it?'

'Shabby?'

'Well, it's not exactly as… polished as the rest of the city. Some of those houses could do with some fixing.'

Ulfric snorted. 'That's the elves' business, not mine.'

'It's your city,' Storm-Watcher said, and the lightness was suddenly replaced with a coolness. Almost an accusation. 'Isn't the Jarl responsible for organising the upkeep of the buildings? The rest of the city seems to be well-maintained-'

Ulfric stopped walking and fixed him with a glare. 'They're not my people.'

He waited for the Altmer to protest, but the elf turned his head away and gave a single, short nod. 'I see.'

There was a definite curtness behind the words, and Ulfric felt anger flare within him. Dragonborn or not, this man had no right to challenge his decisions.

'The Grey Quarter is not my priority,' Ulfric moved off again, the snow crunching under his boots. 'My resources need to be channelled into the war effort, and I can't afford to waste my Septims on a group of people who offer nothing to the cause.'

'Do you intend to see to it once the war's over?'

Ulfric gritted his teeth. 'I'll do as I see fit, Dragonborn.'

He'd hoped to convey through the words that the matter was now closed, but the elf didn't seem to pick up on the hint. 'It would give you a good standing with the people.'

'I have a good standing.' Ulfric's frustration was slowly mounting. 'If I didn't, there wouldn't be an army following me.'

'There's an army following you,' Storm-Watcher agreed quietly. 'There's also a multitude of people – most of the non-Nord population of Skyrim – who fear what your rule might mean for them.'

'Meaning?'

'Meaning that you could gain a great deal more support if you showed more concern for the elves who live in your city.'

Ulfric felt his fists clench involuntarily. 'I believed this war was being fought for the independence of the Nord people.'

'I believed it was being fought for the independence of Skyrim,' the elf replied instantly. 'And Skyrim is home to more than just Nords.'

'What makes you believe you have a right to say this?'

'I've never been one to hold back on saying something that seems to need saying. And I've never met a true leader who didn't want the honest advice of his men.' Storm-Watcher shrugged. 'And you are a true leader, Jarl Ulfric. I don't think this is something that would be said to you by any of your other commanders.'

It wouldn't be, Ulfric told him silently. Out loud, he said, 'And why do you say it when they do not?'

Another shrug. 'Maybe because they're not elves.'

Ulfric looked at him sharply. 'I thought you considered yourself to be a Nord.'

'Maybe you find it easier to consider me a Nord.' They had reached the entrance to the palace, and Storm-Watcher stopped outside the gates, turning so that Ulfric could see again all his unnatural, elven appearance. 'But I'm an Altmer. I think and fight like a Nord, I consider myself to be one of your people, and sometimes I do wish I could have been one of you. But I am still an elf.'

Before Ulfric could respond, he pushed open the door. 'But I apologise if what I said came across as criticism.'

'It was criticism,' Ulfric snapped, shaking the snow from his boots and cloak as he stepped inside.

Storm-Watcher raised his thin brows. 'Well. Has there ever been a man who's ever completely agreed with everything their leader says or does? It doesn't make them any less loyal.'

Ulfric stared at him, at this impossible elf-Nord who openly showed disapproval of him and his choices without anger, without fear, and who still offered that god-like power to his cause. Who'd revealed the true extent of the Thalmor's treachery. Who worshipped Talos, who'd banished Elenwen from the council, who'd risked his life at Helgen trying to save Ulfric from the Empire.

'Then prove your loyalty, Storm-Watcher,' he said. 'You have an Oath to make.'

* * *

Over the weeks that followed, Ulfric did not hear a word from Arvenrior Storm-Watcher's mouth about the Grey Quarter. Nor, indeed, did the elf say anything other than acceptance of the tasks given to him or careful, softly-spoken questions about the missions. He returned from Serpentstone Island with no fewer than three sets of Ice Wraith teeth, brought the Jagged Crown to Ulfric carefully wrapped in his Stormcloak sash, and happily took his place in the barracks with the rest of the soldiers.

That peculiar dog always went where the elf went, and sometimes his housecarl accompanied him; she explained to Ulfric, somewhat hesitantly, that she wasn't really sure what side of the war she was on. She was a true Nord, she said, but she was also a child of Whiterun, and while Balgruuf remained undecided, so did she. 'But defending Arvenrior is something I know I believe in,' she said. 'I'm not fighting for you, I'm fighting for him. I can't take your Oath, but your army has my sword.' Ulfric had decided not to question it – Lydia was an able fighter, and he had a feeling that Storm-Watcher would disapprove if he forced the housecarl to wear the blue sash if she didn't want to. He didn't want to do anything that might risk losing the Dragonborn from his cause.

Because there was no doubt about how valuable the Altmer was.

'Bloody unbelievable,' was Galmar's answer when Ulfric had asked him how Storm-Watcher had conducted himself at Korvanjund. 'Took out three Draugr with one Shout, cut an Imperial in half with one swing. We'd have lost far more men than we did if he hadn't been with us.'

'And how is he getting on with the men?' It had been Ulfric's main concern, that the other Stormcloaks would have an issue with serving alongside an elf. Having an Altmer in a soldiers' camp could lead to all sorts of arguments and brawls, and Ulfric had no wish to lose the Dragonborn because of the behaviour of a few drunken soldiers.

Galmar shrugged. 'Well enough. There was one in my group who seemed to know him already – Ralof.'

Ulfric nodded. Ralof had been one of the few survivors of Helgen, and he'd made his way out alongside the Altmer. He was a good man, both in terms of his heart and his battle skill, and well-respected by his comrades. His opinion, Ulfric knew, would definitely count for something. 'Were there any problems?'

'Nothing more than you'd expect. A few insults, lots of questions about what he was doing there. He didn't seem bothered. Said he'd been adopted by Nords and felt more like a Nord than he did an elf, and most of them left him alone after that. Still, I don't know if they'd have accepted him if he hadn't been Dragonborn.'

When it came to the idea of promoting the elf, giving him command of a group of men, Ulfric found himself conflicted. He had no doubt that the Dragonborn would perform well, but how would a full-blooded Nord react to taking orders from an Altmer? Best to start off small, Ulfric decided, and that was what led him to call the Dragonborn to the Palace of the Kings.

Storm-Watcher arrived wearing his soldier's cuirass. Ulfric had asked him to come alone, but while he came without his housecarl, the dog was at his heels. Ulfric tried to convince himself that the dog didn't count as another person, looked at the animal's eyes, and realised he couldn't. Still, the idea of asking the elf to send the dog out was ridiculous, so he mentally threw up his hands, and leaned forward on his throne to receive them.

'Dragonborn.'

'Jarl Ulfric.' The elf bowed, smiling. 'How can I help?'

'You've been performing well,' Ulfric told him. 'Galmar and I are both impressed by your conduct in battle.'

The smile widened. 'I'm glad to have been of service. But I doubt you brought me here to praise my battle technique.'

'No.' That was something Ulfric respected about Storm-Watcher – he didn't waste time. 'I have a request to make of you. According to your housecarl, you enjoy the position of Thane of Whiterun.'

Storm-Watcher chuckled. 'I don't really have much time to enjoy it, my Jarl. I've barely set foot in Whiterun since I captured the dragon there. But officially, the position's mine. And I have a great deal of respect for Jarl Balgruuf.'

Ulfric nodded slowly. 'Do you believe that respect is returned?'

The elf frowned. 'Balgruuf trusted me when I said I needed to call a dragon into his palace. He made me his Thane, even though I told him I'd not be able to spend much time in the city. I first arrived in his palace wearing a Stormcloak uniform and he heard me out and put faith in me. Yes, I think he respects me as much as I respect him.'

Ulfric made a mental note of that last point – the fact that Balgruuf had allowed anyone in Stormcloak armour inside Dragonsreach was definitely a bonus. 'Would he listen to advice you gave him?'

'As his Thane, I'm expected to give advice.' Storm-Watcher's frown deepened. 'Something tells me you want me to advise him to pledge his allegiance to you.'

Ulfric rose from his seat and drew his axe from his belt. 'Do you know the tradition, Storm-Watcher?'

The elf nodded hesitantly. 'You want me to take the axe to him. Tell him it's time he made his choice.'

'Will you do it? We must have Whiterun on our side one way or the other – its central position is vital.' Ulfric descended the steps to stand in front of Storm-Watcher. 'Balgruuf has stalled long enough. He must make his choice, and I would rather take the city without bloodshed if I can. Perhaps he would be more likely to listen to you.'

Storm-Watcher stood as if frozen, staring at the axe as if it was a murder weapon. 'I don't think Balgruuf will join you, whether the message is brought by me or by anyone else. Not the way things stand now, anyway.'

'That's his decision.'

'It is now, yes.' Storm-Watcher clasped his hands together, a look of agitation spreading across his face. 'I think Balgruuf is afraid of the…' He hesitated ' _Radical_ change it would bring if the Stormcloaks were to win this war.'

'As I said. He must make his choice. If he fears change, then I would have more use for a Jarl who is willing to accept the inevitable.'

'A Jarl, maybe. But don't forget the people. Balgruuf is well-respected, loved, even. There's more to winning a Hold than flying a blue flag from its fort towers and placing a new Jarl on the throne.'

Ulfric gazed at him through narrowed eyes. 'Do you say this because you believe in it, or because you consider Balgruuf a friend?'

'Honestly, both.' The elf looked away; Ulfric could almost see the thoughts whirling in his mind. 'I don't want to become Balgruuf's enemy. But at the same time, I don't want him to become our enemy. There could be a way to bring him round to our side without intimidating him, which would lose him the faith of his people, or replacing him, which would mean some of his Hold would be less likely to support us.'

Intrigued, Ulfric returned to his seat, laying the axe across his knees. 'If you have a plan, tell me now.'

The elf glanced towards the war room. 'It might be useful if I could have a look at the map.'

Ulfric stood up again with a small huff of frustration. 'Very well.'

The dog ran ahead of them, and by the time Ulfric arrived in the room, the dog was rearing up, his front paws on the table, holding a candle in its mouth, and using it to light the others. Ulfric stared. The elf gave a small smile, shook his head and said, 'Thanks, Barbas.'

The dog replaced the candle in its stick and dropped back down onto all fours. Storm-Watcher made his way over to the table and leaned over it, examining the blue flags that represented Stormcloak-held forts and towns, the red ones that marked out those in the power of the Empire, and, in the middle, the grey one that stood for the neutral Whiterun.

'Here's what I think,' the elf said, placing a finger on top of the grey flag. 'Balgruuf is unwilling to accept a change, when he doesn't know what might come of it. And why should he join us now? He's surrounded by Imperial Holds – Haafingar, Hjaalmarch, Falkreath, the Rift… I know the last one's mostly my fault, but when we look at it, only two of the Holds bordering Whiterun - the Reach and Eastmarch – belong to us. If Balgruuf joined us, he runs the risk of being surrounded an all sides by enemies. From his perspective, it might well appear safer to side with the Empire.'

Ulfric leaned over the map, frowning as he understood the elf's idea. 'You think that we should take the surrounding Holds first.'

'I do. If Balgruuf is surrounded by Stormcloak holds, who could blame him from siding with us? Those in his Hold who support us will be content; those who support the Empire will just shake their heads sadly and lament that he didn't have any choice.'

'You misunderstand the situation, Dragonborn. Don't think we haven't tried such a strategy already. The forts bordering Whiterun, from which we would take the Hold – they're almost impossible to assault safely. We need Whiterun as a staging ground to attack those other Holds.'

Storm-Watcher gazed at the map for a few seconds more, then turned to Ulfric. 'Impossible to assault safely, but not impossible to assault.' He breathed in deeply. 'I know I'm a recent addition to your ranks, but I'd ask you to put your faith in me, Jarl Ulfric. Give me a small command, and, say, a month, and I'll take Hjaalmarch.'

The declaration was so unexpected, and spoken so confidently, that Ulfric had to struggle to stop his mouth from dropping open. 'That's a bold statement to make, Storm-Watcher. Especially after the failed attempts that have been made on Hjaalmarch before.'

The elf folded his arms. 'As things stand now, how would you go about taking Hjaalmarch?'

'Galmar has vague plans to fool the Imperials with false plans, so as to divert them. Then we'd take Fort Snowhawk, positioned here – ' Ulfric tapped the appropriate flag with a fingertip – 'Thus crippling the main Imperial garrison in the Hold, before moving on to the smaller forts towards the north.'

'And why hasn't that worked so far?'

'Snowhawk's too well defended. Even if we did pass on false information to the Imperials, they'd still keep their main base of troops there. The fort's position and numbers mean that we'd be mad to assault it without being able to bring troops safely up from Whiterun.'

'I could take it,' Storm-Watcher said quietly.

'And how do you intend to do that?'

'With three words.'

Ulfric narrowed his eyes. 'A Shout?'

'Did the Greybeards ever teach you of _Strun Bah Qo_?'

'Storm fury lightning,' Ulfric translated. 'No. I don't know it.'

'I could take Fort Snowhawk with that Shout alone.'

'Then why do you ask for the small command?'

'When I say 'small,' I mean small. As in, two or three men. To carry me away from the fort afterwards. Using it knocks me out - something to do with the expense of energy, I think.'

Ulfric let out a sigh. 'You seem to have a great deal of faith in yourself, Dragonborn.'

'Not really. But I know what I can do and what I can't. All I ask is your faith.'

Pursing his lips, Ulfric looked at the map, with its multitude of coloured flags enclosing that one grey dilemma. It would take hundreds of men to mount an assault on Whiterun. And in his heart, he knew Storm-Watcher was right. Balgruuf would not join them.

'You have one chance to prove this strategy will work,' he said. 'If you fail to take Fort Snowhawk, you'll deliver that axe to Balgruuf and return with his answer, whatever it might be.'

The elf nodded. 'Understood.'

'Report to the Hjaalmarch camp. I'll send a message to the commander there explaining your purpose. I'll be disappointed if you return without a victory.'

'I won't.' Storm-Watcher signalled to his dog. 'I'll leave immediately.'

Ulfric dipped his head. 'Fight well or die well, Storm-Watcher. Talos be with you.'

* * *

The courier pressed the letter into Ulfric's hands three days later.

Ulfric could tell instantly by the wax seal with its bear head design that this was an official message, a report on the war, and so he unfolded it so quickly he nearly tore the paper. The letter contained only a single sheet, with _Official Stormcloak Report_ written in large letters at the top, with the details of the sender and location below. _Hjaalmarch Stormcloak Camp, 5_ _th_ _of Morning Star. Written by Captain Arrald Frozen-Heart._

'Hjaalmarch,' Ulfric murmured, and his stomach jolted as he remembered the Dragonborn. Both dreading and excited by what he would read, he flicked his eyes down the page.

 _Jarl Ulfric,_ Arrald wrote. _The Dragonborn arrived here this morning, under orders to take Fort Snowhawk. Alone. I don't know how in Talos's good name he managed it, but our flag's flying from the fort towers now, and the Dragonborn's on his way back to you, though he mentioned something about 'possibly getting waylaid by an investigation into a burned-down house,' so I daresay this letter will reach you before he does._

 _I've got a decent sized garrison stationed in Fort Snowhawk now, though I could do with some reinforcements so I can keep it secure while I take the other forts before going for Morthal itself. If things go well, we should have Hjaalmarch by the end of the month; Snowhawk was the only real obstacle._

 _Don't know if there's anything more to say, except that the elf wouldn't talk about how he took out the fort single-handed. If we can get the secret out of him, and use it again, this war will be over before we know it._

 _Talos guide you!_

 _Arrald Frozen-Heart._

Ulfric folded the page, his eyes widening. So Storm-Watcher had been true to his word. Suddenly, Ulfric realised he'd never doubted him. But how in the name of every one of the Nine Divines, had one man, even the Dragonborn, taken an entire fort?

He distracted himself in the day it took for him to learn the answer by organising the dispatch of further troops to Hjaalmarch, and suggesting theories to Galmar about how the elf had done it. And at last the man himself arrived in the Palace, looking tired but cheerful.

'Captain Arrald told me he'd send word ahead,' the Altmer said, stopping before the throne. 'Did you get his message?'

'I did.' Ulfric folded his arms. 'How, exactly, did you take a fort alone?'

'Luck more than judgement,' the elf admitted. 'I have good days and bad days when I use that Shout. This was a good day.'

'Clearly you did something that was more than luck. What was it?'

'The Shout I mentioned. _Strun Bah Qo._ Storm Call. I learned it while I was hunting down Alduin. It's… powerful, but it takes a lot out of me, especially since I learned it so recently. It does as its name suggests, summons a storm, but no ordinary storm. The lightning aims for the enemies of the one who Shouted.'

He sighed heavily. 'I went up to the fort under a flag of truce, and told them to surrender. They didn't. I warned them what would happen, but they didn't believe me. So I went and stood a little way away from the fort, so they couldn't shoot me, checked there was no one else around, and told the men I'd taken with me to stand a long way away and find shelter. Then I used the Shout, and… it worked.' He let out a quiet breath. 'Though I won't be fit for combat for some time. Like I said, it drains my energy. For about a week, I'll tire too quickly to be much use in a battle. That's why I've not used it before. It knocks me out when I use it, and Arngeir warned me that until I have more practise, it'll hit friends as well as enemies. So I can't exactly make it a regular thing. I wouldn't want to, either. I think this war should be won with blood and steel, not by a method the Imperials can't fight against.'

Ulfric nodded. 'Is that why you asked for their surrender?'

'I had to give them a chance. Something my father taught me. You should never fight someone if they're not prepared, or they can't face you as an equal.'

'A Nord's teachings.'

'My father was a Nord. And when it comes to battle, so am I.'

Ulfric rose to his feet. 'This, I know to be true. Dragonborn, what you did in Hjaalmarch means that Hold will be ours before long. And perhaps from there, we can persuade Balgruuf onto our side. You have my gratitude – and my respect.'

The smile widened, becoming almost boyish, the sort of smile that a child gives when praised by an adult they admire. And Ulfric remembered just how young the elf was, and how he must see Ulfric as something like the father he'd lost.

'Will you dine in the Palace tonight?' Ulfric asked. 'I'm sure Galmar would like to hear the story of your victory. And perhaps it would do more to restore your energy than the fare you'd receive in the barracks.'

The elf bowed. 'I'd be honoured to attend, my Jarl. May Lydia and Barbas join me?'

'If they so wish.' Ulfric nodded to him, indicating that he was dismissed. 'I'll see you here this evening.'

And he did, and he was surprised by just how at ease the Dragonborn seemed in this new environment. His armour discarded in favour of a simple red tunic ('the only thing I don't have that doesn't have burn marks on it,' he explained), and his amulet of Talos hung over it for them all to see, putting away more food than Ulfric would ever have expected of an elf, and cheerfully joining in Galmar's drinking songs. He and Lydia told the full story of the quest to defeat Alduin, and at times, when Lydia took over the story, Ulfric noticed how Storm-Watcher would lean back in his seat and just watch her, that usual smile becoming something so tender and warm that even Ulfric, who'd long ago hardened his heart against the world, found himself touched.

Towards the end of the evening, when Galmar was half-asleep (an effect mead often seemed to have on him), and the elf was tucking away his third sweetroll, Ulfric said to him, 'It's good to have you as one of us, Storm-Watcher.' And the elf gave him a peculiar, searching look.

'Why do you call me Storm-Watcher?' he asked.

Ulfric blinked. 'Isn't that your name?'

'Of course it is. But you call most of your men by their first names.'

And Ulfric realised it was true. Why did he call the Dragonborn by his surname, or else by his title? The answer was quick in coming – because his first name was that of an Altmer. That long, un-Nord-like name reminded Ulfric of how different the man was, of how he questioned Ulfric's choices and insisted that the High Elves were still his people. It represented everything about him that Ulfric felt uncomfortable with.

'If you find Arvenrior to be something of a mouthful,' the elf said, after Ulfric sat in silence for some moments, 'most people just call me Arven.'

Yes, that would be easier. Not too obviously elven, nor too formal and cold. The Altmer may have been relatively new to the Stormcloaks, but there was no denying the fact that he was one of their best men. And while so much about him unsettled Ulfric, he… he found himself liking the elf. Liking his warm nature, his sense of honour, his fierce loyalty.

That stranger in the iron armour who had saved him at Helgen, who had joined his army, shown him the truth and fought his battles, was becoming more than a soldier. He was turning into a friend.

And it didn't trouble Ulfric anywhere near as much as he'd thought it would.

'Arven it is.'

* * *

 **About that Storm Call Shout. It seems to me that there's no sensible reason why the Dragonborn wouldn't use it to help their side in the Civil War, but it seems much too easy for them to win every battle like that. I've long thought that a Shout that powerful would be pretty taxing on the one who used it, so my theory is that the energy drain would make it impractical for the Dragonborn to use it too much - hence why Arven used it here only when completely necessary.**

 **I hope no one has a problem with me changing a few game events here - I just feel like Arven would flat-out refuse to force Balgruuf into becoming an enemy if he saw any way out of it, and the idea of what kind of events might bring Balgruuf to join the side he didn't really want to join intrigued me so much I just had to write about it.**

 **If this story continues to stay true to my plan (which would be a first for me, my stories usually go running off in all kinds of crazy directions) we have two chapters left to go. Next chapter, the Stormcloaks embark for Solitude... and we'll get to see Arven in action first-hand. Thanks for reading!**


	5. The Hero Of Two Battles

**I'm sorry this one took so long. I actually wrote the last part first, because it was flowing more easily, and then I decided it should be part of the next chapter. Luckily, this will mean said next chapter will come sooner. :)**

 **Also, I'm sorry I don't focus on the actual action in this chapter as much as I could - partly because I'm trying to focus on the relationships between the characters more, and partly because it would have made the chapter far too long. I hope you enjoy anyway.**

* * *

CHAPTER FIVE – THE HERO OF TWO BATTLES

Ulfric had always known that this final night would be the longest, and the hardest.

The journey to the encampment near Solitude had been uneventful, and he should have been grateful for that, but the quietness of the trek across Skyrim had meant that he'd had nothing to do except think. It was troubling, to dwell on the consequences this battle would have. He knew in his heart that they would have the victory; every Stormcloak soldier who could have been spared was packed into the camp. His strongest warriors would be at his side, none more closely than Galmar, and a step behind him would be the Dragonborn. For the Imperials, now, Solitude lived up to its name – it was their only remaining stronghold in the entire land. Yes, they would win.

But what if they did not? If he fell, would Galmar have the strength to lead the army on? What if they were both slain? Ulfric had no heir. He'd never been able to find the time for love, and besides, his heart was too hardened now. No one would rise to take his place. Everything hinged on Solitude, on this battle, on what would come tomorrow.

Even the thought of victory brought stirrings of fear with it. What if the Moot somehow ruled against him? Or if the Dominion retaliated too swiftly, attacked before they had a chance to plan a defence, negotiate with the other provinces, prepare Skyrim for what would inevitably come?

But Ulfric tried to banish those thoughts from his mind. Doubts did him no good.

He'd gone over the plan with his most trusted men upon his arrival. His various Captains had made their own suggestions, debated every detail, and finally agreed on the strategy. That had distracted Ulfric for some hours. Now he was left to wait, and wonder.

The sea of tents that housed his army stretched away in every direction around him. Campfires dotted the landscape, sparks trailing upwards into the sky. In the distance, Ulfric could hear faint strains of songs. The oldest and strongest songs, the war chants, the kind that fired up a warrior's blood and made them clench their fists in readiness for the battle.

But up here, around the fire set aside for the officers, there was only silence. Ulfric had no words to say that he had not already said, or that he was not saving for tomorrow. For now, his seat around the campfire, with the company of his brothers and sisters in arms, was enough. There was a silent understanding between them, a respect and gratitude that meant there was no need for words.

All the same, Ulfric was glad when one of them retrieved a lute from their tent and started up a chorus of _The Age of Oppression._ Ulfric didn't join in, partly because he was so deep in thought and partly because it would be somewhat egotistical to sing a song written in his own praise. Still, the words warmed his heart. They reminded him that he was the one who had brought these people here, and that all of this was happening because of something he had begun within the walls of that city on the horizon. When he'd taken Torygg's life, this had started. And soon he would see it end.

Thoughts of Torygg made him remember that battle again. Torygg had fought well. He'd been proud. Unafraid. He'd never stood a hope of victory, but he'd answered the challenge. In the end, for all his talk about the Empire, he'd been a true Nord. Not for the first time, Ulfric wondered if he had been wrong to use the Voice at all in that battle. The Empire said he had been, but he didn't much care what they thought.

All the same, it had been an advantage that Torygg hadn't had. Ulfric knew it had made them less equal, and so, perhaps, the duel had been less honourable.

But then he thought of Arvenrior Storm-Watcher walking alone up to Fort Snowhawk, demanding the garrison's surrender, and destroying them when they refused. That fight had not been equal, either. Snowhawk could have been taken by other methods. But it had been necessary, to spare the lives of all the men who would have died taking it – and who would have died taking Whiterun, which in the end had been unnecessary. Hjaalmarch had followed, the Reach had been reclaimed, and as Ulfric sent troops to close in on Falkreath, so he had sent the Dragonborn to Balgruuf, bearing his axe. The elf had returned empty-handed, reporting that Balgruuf had seem reluctant, but that the Jarl of Whiterun had clearly understood that he had no other option.

Arven had used the Voice at Snowhawk, against men who could not fight back against it, for Skyrim's sake. The same was true of the duel with Torygg. Perhaps not fair, perhaps not honourable, but the only way.

As these thoughts flitted through Ulfric's mind, he caught sight of the Dragonborn emerging from the tent he shared with his ever-loyal housecarl, his dog, and a few other officers. Ulfric beckoned him over, and the elf picked his way through the other soldiers to sit at Ulfric's side. 'Can I help you, my Jarl?'

Ulfric shook his head. 'I only have a question. What will you do once Solitude has fallen?'

A frown furrowed Arven's brow. 'If I'm still needed, I'll stay under your command.'

'Once Solitude is taken, the war will be over.' The last part of that sentence still sounded unbelievable, like a beautiful but distant dream. 'Unless the Dominion make their move immediately, I doubt I'll need your services again for some time.'

Arven nodded. 'In that case, I may head to Whiterun. See if the Companions could use an extra fighter.' He sighed. 'I'm a fighter, Jarl Ulfric. It's what I live for, the thrill of the battle, the knowledge that I'm making a difference. I'll always need a cause.'

Ulfric nodded. This, he understood. Hadn't he said as much to Galmar, when his old friend had suggested that soldiers would no longer be needed on a day when words alone could solve all conflict? _I would gladly retire from the world,_ he'd said, _were such a day to join._

'I'm glad mine was the cause you chose,' he told the elf.

Arven was silent for a few moments, his eyes turned to the sky. The blue and green wisps of an aurora were beginning to dance across the darkening heavens.

'Do you fear death?' he said, in a voice that was little more than a whisper.

Ulfric gazed at him for a moment, closed his eyes, and considered.

'I do not fear death itself.' He gave a small shake of his head. 'I know Sovngarde awaits me. My ancestors will receive me with honour. I will have a chance to thank all those who gave their lives in battle at my side. No. I do not fear death.'

He drew in a deep breath. 'What I do fear is failure. That I should fall and leave my work here unfinished. That all the blood that was shed and all the brothers I lost and all the sleepless nights I passed… that all that should be for nothing. I fear being remembered only as the Empire would have me remembered – a rebel who stirred up conflict for the sake of his own greed. I fear the dishonour that would come with death if it came in tomorrow's battle.'

His Altmer soldier inclined his head. 'If you leave us for Sovngarde tomorrow, you will not be forgotten. As long as one man remembers all you did, you cannot be. If I live, I'll make sure of that.'

'I know.' Ulfric knew as he said it that it was true – he trusted this man with his legacy. 'And I am grateful for it.'

He turned his head, meeting those golden-orange eyes. They had once seemed so strange, so alien. Now they were simply Arven's eyes, the eyes of a brother in arms. 'What of you, Stormblade? Do you fear to die?'

'I feel the same way as you. I'm not afraid of being killed. I've been to Sovngarde. I breathed its air and walked its grass and drank its mead. As Dragonborn, I have a place set out for me there.' He sighed. 'I sometimes wonder if that's why Akatosh made me Dragonborn. He knew that as an Altmer, I could never go to Sovngarde, but he knew how much I would want to. And he took pity on me and gave me my power so that I would be able to go there.'

'Don't be foolish.' Ulfric snorted. 'You were chosen to be Dragonborn because you are a warrior born. Because you care for Skyrim. Because the Nine knew you would defend her to your last breath.'

'I hope you're right.' The elf clasped his hands together. 'Whatever the reason, Akatosh has made sure I'll see my parents again on my death. But as you said, I'd be leaving so much behind. Skyrim still needs me. The dragons are a still a danger. And Lydia. I don't want to leave her.'

His gaze shifted to where his housecarl was standing a little way away from the fire, laughing as she talked to Kalla and Koll. And Ulfric couldn't stifle a smile at the way the elf stared. Like there was nothing else in the world worth seeing.

'You should marry that woman,' he said bluntly.

Arven laughed. 'Oh, don't worry. I intend to.'

And that, Ulfric realised, was why the elf was afraid to die. Because of the future he would lose if he did. He could marry Lydia, live out his life in Skyrim with her, have children. Experience all the joys of normal life that Ulfric had simply never had, or been able to have. This battle could take all that potential from him. Ulfric's battle could take it from him.

'Arven,' he said. 'For what you have done for me, for Skyrim… there are no words to express my gratitude. No other has fought as fiercely or as bravely as you.'

'I'm the one who needs to be saying thank you.' Arven bit his lip. 'When I first came to the Palace of the Kings… I don't know if it showed, but I was terrified you would turn me away. You gave me a chance to risk my life for Skyrim. I've been proud to do it.'

Ulfric blinked. 'Why did you think we would not welcome you?'

Arven stared back, looking bemused. 'Because I'm an elf. Why else?'

'You are also Dragonborn.'

'Knowing what little I knew of you at that time, I thought you might refuse to acknowledge me as Dragonborn. I understand your hatred of the Thalmor. I share it. But I had no way of knowing whether it would extend to all their kind.'

'It did.'

The Altmer's eyes narrowed slightly. ' _Did?'_ he repeated.

'For one such as you, an exception could be made.'

'You misunderstand me. You said _did._ Past tense.'

Ulfric opened his mouth to respond, and realised he had no words to say. _Had_ he changed his mind? Yes, the sight of an elf still made his skin crawl, and yet… here was one who called himself an elf, insisted that for all his Nordic tendencies he was still an elf, and Ulfric knew he was a good man. Surely any other elf, if they were raised as well as Arven had been, had that same potential?

He was glad when his companion, apparently sensing his discomfort, didn't press the issue – or at least, didn't ask Ulfric for a response. 'I'm glad I was given a chance to prove that we're not all like them. Not all Altmer, I mean.' He ran a hand through his gold braids. 'The Thalmor might rule our homeland, but… my parents, my blood parents, they weren't Thalmor. They caught fish for a living. My father's best friend was an Argonian. The Aldmeri Dominion marches across Tamriel, killing anyone who stands in their way and making everyone hate my race. If I don't live to see Skyrim freed, then at least I'll know I proved to at least some people that the Thalmor don't stand for all Altmer. And that not all Altmer will stand for the Thalmor.'

Arven was silent for a few moments more, then suddenly broke into one of his broad smiles. 'Well, this'll do us no good. Might as well have some entertainment, if it's our last chance.'

He jumped to his feet. 'Halling! Throw us a lute!'

Halling obeyed, slinging the instrument over the fire, making the other Stormcloaks whoop and laugh as it narrowly missed being clipped by the flames. Arven caught it neatly, plucked a few of the strings experimentally, and sent a chord ringing out into the air. Those who were not already looking at him turned, their faces expectant.

'What've you got for us, Goldie?' Koll called.

Ulfric bit back a snort. No doubt this was a regular nickname, because Arven didn't bat an eyelid.

'Give us _The Dragonborn Comes_ ,' someone shouted, and a couple of soldiers sniggered.

Arven rolled his eyes. 'And let your possibly last memory of me be me singing a song in my own praise? Not likely.' He frowned, and Ulfric almost laughed - that was exactly what he'd been thinking about _The Age of Oppression_ earlier. 'Do any of you know _The Final Call?'_

Ulfric's heart twisted into a knot. He knew it. He'd heard it sung so many times before the battles of the Great War, battles everyone had been convinced would be their last. And from the way the men and women around him were nodding, their eyes sombre, he could tell that they knew it too, and knew why Arven had suggested it.

'Let's have it, Goldie,' Koll said, and his voice was much quieter now.

Arven swallowed and glanced down at the lute strings, fumbling his fingers into position. 'I warn you, I was never very good with these things. But I'll do my best.'

He plucked out the first few notes of the introduction, the hesitant sound floating upwards towards the glistening aurora. Those few men still talking lapsed into silence. And Arven's voice – not strong, but true to the tune, rang out over the hissing of the fire.

' _The final call is sounding_

 _In the dying light of day_

 _The drums of war are pounding_

 _And I must now away_

 _For there is no denying_

 _The oaths that I have made_

 _May the Gods alone know that I am afraid.'_

He wavered on the last word. Ulfric looked around at the faces that watched him, and saw that they were pale. These were indeed the faces of people who feared what tomorrow would bring. Yet none of them would say it. That was true courage, to know your fear and to go on despite it.

Other voices joined Arven's as he began the chorus, the slow and mournful tune taken up by soldier and quartermaster, man and woman. And Ulfric found himself joining them.

' _When the final call comes sounding, may the many turn to one_

 _For should we die, together we must fall_

 _Let us live the same, and give the same, and in the years to come_

 _Men will sing of how we gathered at the call.'_

Lydia came quietly around the side of the campfire and took a seat at Arven's side. He glanced down at her, exchanged a smile with her, and went on.

' _Now I see the farmers' daughters_

 _Standing with the rulers' sons_

 _For the final call that sought us_

 _Led us all to fight as one_

 _We march under one banner_

 _And we share a single name_

 _And when we die, we all shall die the same.'_

A shudder ran through Ulfric's body, and he knew it wasn't from the cold. The words were so painfully true. Here he was, Jarl of Windhelm, true High King of Skyrim, but a sword would claim his life just as easily as it would the life of the lowest-born peasant who fought under the blue flag of the bear.

And then he looked at Arven. A dragon. An elf. A man. Some strange mix of souls. He would die the same as the rest of them, too. No matter what the shape of his ears and the colour of his skin.

The chorus began again.

' _When the final call comes sounding, may the many turn to one_

 _For should we die, together we must fall_

 _Let us live the same, and give the same, and in the years to come_

 _Men will sing of how we gathered at the call.'_

The many had indeed turned to one, just as the song said. They had turned to him. He, Ulfric Stormcloak, was the one they had chosen to lead them. But they had also turned to one in a different way, because every man and woman in this camp fought for the same goal. When the order came tomorrow for them to begin the battle, they would all be as one person.

No matter what their species.

Every voice rose together as the final verse began.

' _And if I should die tomorrow_

 _I shall die without regret_

 _Though I leave you all in sorrow_

 _I know you will not forget_

 _In a season far from coming_

 _In a life unscarred by war_

 _Remember me, and I can ask no more.'_

Wasn't that what everyone wanted, in the end? To feel that they had not lived for nothing? To know that somehow, they would live on after death, whether in the pages of history or in the memories of their brothers and sisters in arms?

' _When the final call comes sounding, may the many turn to one_

 _For should we die, together we must fall_

 _Let us live the same, and give the same, and in the years to come_

 _Men will sing of how we gathered at the call.'_

Arven's fingers sent the final notes out into the night, and all was silent again.

Ulfric closed his eyes. It was perhaps the truest song he had ever heard in his life. No doubt it had been composed on a night like this, by some soldier waiting for battle, waiting for death, with a million different emotions burning in his soul that only music could express. And the song, because it expressed that sense of fear and uncertainty and courage and unity that could only ever exist in a warrior's heart, had been passed on.

These men around him had answered Ulfric's call. And tomorrow, he would have to make it worth it.

* * *

They were waiting for them in the streets. Eight or nine of them, standing in a dead straight line, like a row of odd, armoured plants. Or a vision straight out of one of Ulfric's nightmares.

A chill spread through his body, even though the heat of the burning barricade slowly crumbling nearby him was still wrapping itself around his skin. Beside him, Galmar growled deep in his throat and tightened his grip on his battleaxe. Arven stiffened, then moved his greatsword into a ready stance. Ulfric took a step forward, pointing his axe towards the leader of the group who now stood in his path.

'Elenwen,' he snarled.

The Thalmor First Emissary, he noticed, had lost some of her sleekness. Every time he had seen her in the past, even when she'd been watching him scream in his cell, she'd worn that expression of aloof amusement that adorns the face of well-bred cats. Only once had he seen her mask slip – when Arven had unleashed his rage upon her in High Hrothgar. But now that mask was gone entirely. There was an urgent look, almost one of desperation, in the Altmer woman's eyes; her bearing was less poised, her face less still. Under her eyes were the dark circles that spoke of lack of sleep, and there was a small tear in the bottom of her robe. She looked almost as if she had decayed slightly since Ulfric had last set eyes on her.

When she spoke, though, her voice was smooth and cool as ever. 'Jarl Ulfric. You're more determined than we gave you credit for. Although of course, your pet dragon has been doing most of the work.'

Arven ground his teeth together. 'You're blocking our way to Castle Dour. I thought you'd decided to stay out of this war, keep both sides at each other's throats, stop any decisive conclusion. That was the plan, wasn't it?'

'Unless circumstances demanded otherwise. And they have.' Elenwen didn't seem at all surprised that the Dragonborn had worked out the Thalmor's strategy – for one thing, it was blindingly obvious, and for another, she was sure to have noticed that her documents had vanished from the Embassy. 'We're not here defending the Empire, you understand. We're here to prevent a conclusion.'

'If you wish to stop me killing Tullius, you'll have to kill me.' Ulfric forced himself not to attack there and then, to keep talking – he had to know why she was here. There was no telling what kind of traps she might have in place. 'And then you'll have gained nothing.'

'Wait. I think I see her plan.' Arven was nodding. 'She takes you captive again, then allows you to escape. If we fail to take Solitude now, the Empire will win back some of its foothold in Skyrim, and the war goes on.'

The glare Elenwen gave him was venomous. 'You're an astute one, aren't you? But you've missed one part, Dragonborn. Your death. The Stormcloaks would never have come this far, had you not lent your power to them.'

Lydia strode forwards, her eyes narrowed. 'You'll go through me before you lay a hand on him.'

Ulfric looked at the man who stood beside him, at the face of the man who, just as Elenwen had said, had been the reason they'd come this far. And he took another step towards his enemies. 'And through me.'

'And me,' Galmar growled.

'Such touching loyalty.' Elenwen lifted a hand, and her guards drew their weapons. 'You disappoint me, Jarl Ulfric. Your sad devotion to your people seemed so strong, and yet you were willing to cast aside all those ideals of yours just to have a little more power on your side. How does it feel, to know you had to take in the thing you hated most in order to defeat your enemies?'

It took Ulfric a moment to work out what she meant. 'You think I regret that this man was the one the Gods chose? That I had to take an elf into my army in order to have the Dragonborn follow me?' He twirled his axe around in his hand. 'No. Other than Galmar and myself, none has done more for our cause than Storm-Watcher. He is not the thing I hate. He is –' Ulfric hesitated, scarcely able to believe the words he was about to utter, but knowing they were true, and that they deserved to be said. 'He is my friend. My brother in arms, close to me as kin. You – the Thalmor – are what I hate.'

Arven turned towards him, and the look of astonishment and joy on his face made Ulfric suddenly certain that he'd been right to say what he had.

At last, the Dragonborn turned back to the line of Thalmor. 'You're what I hate too,' he said. 'And I'd like you to seriously consider whether this is a battle you can win, Elenwen. We were only the first to reach the courtyard. We have an army hot on our heels. And yes, you have us outnumbered, but Jarl Ulfric and I both have the Voice.'

'Before you two Shout her into Oblivion - which I'll enjoy watching – there's something I want to know.' Galmar jabbed his weapon in Elenwen's direction. 'Why are you here yourself? Why's the Thalmor First Emissary risking her own prissy skin on the battlefield? What happens if you die? Who leads the Thalmor in Skyrim then?'

Elenwen's jaw clenched, and the realisation struck Ulfric in an instant.

'They've demoted you.' Arven voiced Ulfric's thoughts for him, his eyes wide with astonishment. 'You let me infiltrate the Embassy. You ran away from that peace council instead of making sure the Thalmor kept an eye on it. And you couldn't stop us from getting within sight of victory.'

Galmar laughed triumphantly. 'The Thalmor don't like mistakes, do they?'

Elenwen let out a sound that was almost a snarl. 'Which is why I shall make none now! When I return you – ' She pointed at Ulfric – 'To the Embassy in binds, along with your head –' She jabbed her finger at Arven – 'I will have proven my worth once again.'

'Then it's a pity you'll die here and now.' Arven glanced at Ulfric, and Ulfric nodded. It was time. He carefully tilted his axe, indicating the rightmost members of the Thalmor line, then shot a subtle glance at Galmar and pointed towards the left side of the group. Both men nodded, indicating that they had understood.

'I'm sorry to let you down, but I'll not be the one dying. You are a traitor to my race, and you've been a thorn in my side for long enough. No matter what your powers, you'll never –'

'Shut her up,' Ulfric muttered, and Arven, smiling, obliged.

' _Yol TOOR SHUL!'_

Elenwen raised a ward in time to shield herself, but the man standing to her left was not so lucky. Arven's Shout tore right into him, and from his scream, Ulfric knew that he was being cooked inside his armour. When he fell, he did not rise again.

Both groups sprang into motion at once. Arven charged the rightmost three, Galmar barrelled towards the two on the left with his battleaxe brandished high, Lydia raised her shield and let another come to her, and Arven's dog leaped at another. That left Elenwen for Ulfric, just as he had hoped.

How many times had he dreamed of this? Certainly the thought of being able to face her in battle, with nothing to hold him back, had been a hope he'd harboured inside his heart since she'd first sent her spells tearing into him in that prison cell. He'd killed her a thousand times in his daydreams, watched her die in so many different ways, each more painful than the last. But now that he was here, facing her in the open freedom of battle, none of those daydreams seemed important. This was reality, this was his chance to end her, to snuff out the embodiment of his nightmares once and for all.

She pulled back her arm, a spell crackling around her fingertips, but Ulfric had faced enough spellcasters in his time to know how to handle their tricks. He veered sharply to the right the moment he saw her move her hand to release the spell, and it seared harmlessly past him. And then he was upon her, bringing his axe down in an arc towards her neck.

He was reminded then that Elenwen had fought in the Great War too, and that no more intention of dying here than she did. Her ward forced his blow to slam to a halt in mid-air, and her free hand whipped a dagger from her belt, driving it towards Ulfric's side. He spun to the side to avoid it and slashed out at her stomach; she leaped backwards, and it skimmed past her, tearing a thin gash in the black cloth, but not reaching the flesh.

There was a sound like an explosion from his right and something large and golden flew past him like an arrow fired from a bow. A moment later, there was a loud clashing sound, like metal against stone. Ulfric guessed that Arven had Shouted one of the elves facing him backwards, and that they had struck the wall of the courtyard. Unrelenting Force hit hard. That elf would not be fighting on any time soon.

He risked a glance towards the Dragonborn out of the corner of his eye. He was battling two at once, but fortunately for him, both were favouring their melee weapons at these close quarters, and that meant they were at his mercy. Ulfric had never really seen his Altmer friend in action before, barring the little he'd seen of him at Helgen, back when he still wore that battered iron armour. He'd had plenty of chances to observe the elf's style during this battle, though, and he was impressed by what he saw. There was little refined strategy to Arven's method, true, no clever moves or techniques, but as far as Ulfric could tell, that was because they weren't necessary. Arven simply _pushed._ That blade of his was like a wall, constantly driving the enemy back and off balance. He kept coming forwards, his bulk and the size of his blade intimidating his opponents into not approaching. And then he would dart forwards, just when they'd become used to his slow advance. The greatsword would sweep, blood would spiral through the air, and a body would fall. That happened now, in the space of the second in which Ulfric looked his way.

To his left, meanwhile, Galmar had felled one of his opponents, bringing his battleaxe down on the elf's head with enough force to split the helmet – and the skull. The dog had another on the ground, its snapping teeth steadily getting closer to the Thalmor's throat, despite the elf's flailing hands. The Dragonborn's housecarl seemed to be struggling against her enemy, but Ulfric wasn't worried. Arven was sure to be keeping one eye on the woman he loved – and sure enough, as Ulfric watched, the Altmer man twisted his head around and sent an almost casual Ice Breath Shout at Lydia's opponent, knocking him back and slowing his movements enough for Lydia to drive her sword through his neck.

These Thalmor did not want to be here, Ulfric realised suddenly. They weren't fighting hard enough. Perhaps this was not an official mission. Perhaps Elenwen had come here alone, without orders from the Thalmor, or even disregarding orders not to come. These men would be her personal guard, then, or acquaintances she'd blackmailed into helping her. If the Thalmor had really wanted to stop this war from reaching a conclusion, they could have sent an army here.

But all they had was these pathetic attempts at soldiers. And Elenwen, whose desperation was making her strong. And careless.

There was no time to watch his comrades now. He could only focus on dodging her spells, blocking any blows from her dagger, lunging into every opening. He was the stronger, but she was the faster; she was the more experienced, but he was the more fearless. He couldn't hit her, but she was able to land nothing more substantial on him than a lightning spell that seared a section of his cloak and scorched his skin. But he'd withstood her torture, and he knew how to ignore pain. He fought on.

Another lunge with that dagger, and this time, Ulfric was ready for it. He swung his axe not at her, but at her weapon, and the collision of the heavy axe with the small knife was enough to knock it from her grip. Her eyes flicked down, and he could see her considering reaching for it. But the dog darted forwards, snatched it up between his teeth, and jumped back. His tail was wagging.

As Elenwen stared blankly at the animal, Ulfric was able to catch a moment to breathe, and check the situation. Elenwen was the last Thalmor standing, and small wonder - a group of Stormcloaks had finally broken through the last barricades and reached them. Ulfric spotted a few familiar faces among them - Ralof, Halling, Koll, Kalla – and smiled. This was his fight, and his fight alone, but it gave him strength to know that he had people near him who would gladly have joined it.

But they hung back, of course. They knew that this was his battle.

It started off subtle, the turn of the fight in his favour. Perhaps it was because her magicka was becoming drained, or simply because she was tiring, or because she was afraid and her fear was making her make mistakes. But her spells were easier to dodge, her wards were wavering, and Ulfric could see the realisation dawning in her eyes that this was the battle that would kill her.

She was one of the most talented mages in this province, no doubt about it, and Ulfric was an aging warrior, already wounded from his trawl through Solitude. But she stood alone, and he had his comrades ranged around him. He didn't even need them to lift a blade to help him. All he needed was to have them close by, and he was stronger than her. Stronger than either of them had known.

He didn't have to resort to any clever trick, in the end, or even to use the Voice. It was just one more simple axe blow that, this time, she was just too slow to dodge. The blade sunk into her chest, and she fell back onto the cobbles with a scream. A roar rose up from behind Ulfric, a sound of joy and triumph, and he knew that the men around him were seeing their hero, their future king, destroy the monster they hated most.

She stared up at him with wide, terrified eyes. 'You can't!' she gasped, but she and Ulfric and everyone watching already knew he could.

'Why?' he demanded. 'Tell me, Elenwen. Why should I not put an end to you now?'

She stared for a moment, clearly floundering around in her memory to try and find something she could use against him. 'I am defenceless. Are you not a man of honour?'

'Are you not the woman who tortured and deceived me?' Ulfric lowered his voice to a hiss; he did not want anyone other than Arven and Galmar to hear this.

She kept staring.

'You've haunted my nightmares for too long.' He bent down, crouching so that only she could hear him now. 'Every darkest dream has been filled with you. If I were anything like you, I would leave you to bleed out your life from that wound. Be grateful I am granting you a quick death.'

He raised his axe, and everything happened so quickly that he might have missed it if he'd blinked. Elenwen's expression changed from fear to triumph. She lifted one hand, and it was crackling with lightning. He was too close to dodge. She released the spell.

And the roar and blast of a Shout slammed into Ulfric from the side.

The Greybeards, during his training, had sometimes used their Voices on him – he would have had to learn how to withstand a Shout completely to become one of them. But they had been holding back, tempering the power of their Voices so as not to hurt him. This was the full strength of Unrelenting Force, and it hit like a charging horse.

 _Flew_ was not the right word to describe what Ulfric did. Flying was graceful, controlled. This was more like a plummet, just to the side rather than downwards. For a few seconds he hurtled through the air, gripped by the unnerving feeling that he'd left his stomach some distance away. Then he crashed into the line of watching Stormcloak soldiers, and their hands were grasping his arms, pulling him back to his feet.

So he was upright in time to see Arven skid to a stop at Elenwen's side and bring down his sword. The blade sank down. Elenwen screamed, stiffened – and went limp.

There was a long silence. Ulfric saw the men around him glancing around uncertainly. A couple were even aiming arrows at Arven, and Ulfric hurriedly gestured for them to lower them. To the watchers, it must have seemed like the Altmer man had attacked him, but he knew that was not what the Dragonborn had done.

He strode forwards, and his elf soldier bowed his head. 'I'm sorry. That was for you to do. But she had another spell coming.'

Ulfric shook his head. 'No. Thank you.'

'I couldn't think of any other way to get you way from here –'

'Storm-Watcher. Arven. No forgiveness is needed.' Ulfric looked into his eyes. 'That is the second time you've saved my life.'

'And you gave mine a purpose. I think we're even.'

Galmar had come forward while they spoke, and now he crouched beside Elenwen and pressed his fingers against her neck. 'She's dead all right,' he said.

Ulfric let out a long sigh. So it was done. The nightmare was over.

But the battle was not.

'And now,' Galmar he said, his gaze falling on the door to Castle Dour, 'It's time to do what we came here for.'

He breathed in deeply and turned to look at Galmar. His oldest friend nodded, the simple movement enough to show that he was ready. And when he twisted his head around to Arven, the elf's smile said the same.

And so Ulfric walked forwards, his two most loyal soldiers, his two most loyal _friends_ on either side of him, to push open the door, to march inside the castle, to meet the man who was not his enemy, who simply represented the thing that stood in the way of Skyrim's freedom, the man who was waiting for them, head high in the face of the enemy he must already knew would be his end.

All it took was one swift battle, and the war that had sent Skyrim up in flames was over.

* * *

 **One more chapter! It shouldn't take too long. Again, sorry for not describing the entire battle, but these scenes were so vivid in my head they ended up quite long, and I didn't want to describe the entire thing, since only these parts are really important to the story of Arven and Ulfric's friendship.**

 **About Elenwen - yes, it is lore-friendly for me to kill her. She becomes non-essential after Season Unending, so she was fair prey. XD**

 **I really hope you liked this one! As I said, the next and last one will be coming shortly.**


	6. The Friend With Many Souls

**Here's the final chapter! It's also the first chapter which was struck by the dreaded writer's block. Why the last one? Why? But I'm reasonably happy with it, all the same.** **This chapter is actually more of an epilogue than a final chapter, especially the last two sections, but it would have been too short if I'd split it up. I may do some editing on this later to polish it a bit.**

 **Thanks so much to everyone who followed, favourited, reviewed and just read the story, it means a lot to me. :)**

* * *

CHAPTER SIX – THE FRIEND WITH MANY SOULS

'So, if all goes well, the Moot will have happened by midsummer.' Galmar folded the parchment he held, his face filled with satisfaction. 'And that, my friend, will be the end of the Empire's hold over Skyrim.'

Ulfric nodded, smiling; his housecarl's report had borne nothing but good news. Tidings of Imperial camps vanishing like smoke. A sudden drop in Thalmor activity as the Dominion scrambled to find someone to replace Elenwen. The new Jarls he had appointed managing their Holds well. All had agreed to attend the Moot – and better still, most had already confirmed that they intended to pledge their support for him. Not that there was any doubt, but it was good to be certain.

'Thank you, Galmar.' Ulfric let out a long breath. 'So by the end of Mid Year, we'll finally see an end to this.'

'Aye, and we'll see the Jagged Crown on your head.' Galmar glanced down at the map of Skyrim that dominated the scene in the war room. Nothing now but blue flags. Perhaps it would be more practical to take the map away, use the table for something more productive, but Ulfric knew it would be all too easy for conflict to break out again. Maybe he'd never see the map removed in his lifetime.

He wouldn't mind if that was the case. Like Arven, he was made to have a cause. He was a fighter, right down to the core. He had fought this war for freedom's sake, but freedom did not always bring peace. Soon the Dominion would rise again, and Skyrim would have to be ready for them.

'We'll soon see.' Ulfric breathed out slowly. 'That will be all for now, Galmar. Be sure to send those missives to the Jarls. Go and get yourself some mead.'

His old friend rubbed his hands together. 'Gladly.'

As Galmar departed, Ulfric leaned over the map, absent-mindedly scooping up the flag that represented Dawnstar and turning it over in his fingers. A month on from the battle for Solitude, it still felt nothing like the end of the war. Most of the army had been disbanded, the men returning to their farms, their wives, their children. Others had been sent to guard the forts and patrol the borders, to keep watch for any resurgence of the Dominion. Galmar was forced into the field less and less often by the day; mostly due to Ulfric's attempts to cut his friend's workload. Galmar wasn't getting any younger.

As for his other most trusted officer, Ulfric hadn't set eyes on Arven since the elf had left for Whiterun after the end of the battle. He'd had a letter from him, carrying assurance that he and Lydia and Barbas were well, that the Companions had accepted them, and that Balgruuf seemed to bear little ill will towards them, but other than that, nothing.

The door to the Palace opened. Even from a distance, Ulfric could hear it. And he heard a loud, sharp bark.

 _Speak of the Daedra,_ he thought, smiling. There was no one else who would bring a dog into the palace.

As he had suspected, the elf was marching across the hall, that peculiar dog running at his heels. He had the same warpaint and braids, but he had exchanged his armour for that fur-trimmed set with the wolf motif that the Companions wore. None of that came as a surprise to Ulrfic, but what he had not expected was to see a girl of no more than nine or ten following a pace behind his former soldier, only half of her face visible – she was huddling so close to the Altmer that most of her was out of sight.

Arven lifted a hand in greeting, and Ulfric dipped his head. 'Dragonborn,' he said, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice.

'Jarl Ulfric .' The elf gave him one of his wide smiles. 'I have a request to make.'

Ulfric nodded slowly.

The elf stepped to the side and placed a gentle hand on the girl's shoulder. 'This is Sofie,' he said.

The girl swallowed hard, glanced up at Ulfric from under a tangle of dark red hair, and quickly dropped her eyes back down to the floor again. Ulfric frowned, peering at her. Something about her was familiar – the shape of her face, maybe, or the colour of her hair. From the tattered state of her tunic and skirt, it was obvious that she was one of the all-too-many street children who scratched a living in the alleyways of Windhelm; perhaps he'd caught sight of her on one of his walks through the city.

'You're probably wondering why I brought her here,' Arven remarked, and Ulfric inclined his head, indicating that the elf could not have been more right. 'Sofie's father was one of us – a Stormcloak, I mean.'

That might explain why she looked familiar, if she was kin to someone who had fought at Ulfric's side. 'What was his name?'

The child glanced at Arven, who gave her an encouraging nod. 'Tell him, Sofie.'

'Jund,' the girl said, her voice barely more than a whisper.

An image flashed through Ulfric's head – a man with the same red hair as the girl, fearless as a sabre cat, loyal as the Dragonborn's dog. A man who had been beside him at Helgen, who had shouted across the priestess the moment she had mentioned eight Divines, who had gone to his death with those proud words – _My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?_

A man who, if he had waited just a few minutes more, might have escaped the axe, might have lived through the dragon's attack, might have returned to his daughter.

'I knew your father,' Ulfric said, bending down so that his head and the girl's were on a level. 'He was a brave man. A good soldier.' Reckless, he added silently, but he knew it was unfair to tell the girl how Jund had died, and how close he had come to surviving.

Sofie, at last, managed to summon the courage to look him in the eyes. 'My mother died when I was little,' she said, still so quietly that Ulfric had to strain his ears to hear her.

'So you've got no one.'

'Arven's given me money sometimes.'

'She sells flowers in the Grey Quarter,' the elf explained. 'I pass her every time I go to visit my friends in the Assemblage. Usually buy her whole stock. Shahvee keeps joking that if I bring them any more, she could set up an alchemist's shop.'

'You live on the streets, then.'

Sofie nodded, and Arven moved forward to stand beside her. 'I've sometimes thought about taking her in myself,' he said. 'But what with the work I'm doing right now, it's not really possible. I was wondering – if I paid for her upkeep, could you find a home for her in the Palace?'

'I'd make myself useful,' Sofie said quickly. 'I could clean.'

Ulfric chuckled. 'That won't be necessary. I'll ask Jorleif to see you're given a place to stay.' There could be no harm in doing a favour for Arven, especially when it involved helping the daughter of a former Stormcloak.

He straightened up and beckoned his steward over; as ever, Jorleif had been listening. 'See to it, Jorleif.'

Arven nodded, giving Sofie another smile. 'Go with him, Sofie. I'll visit as often as I can.'

As the steward led the girl away towards the living areas of the palace, Ulfric turned to Arven, raising one eyebrow. 'You know I'd not open my doors to any ragged street urchin, I'm sure.'

'Of course. I hoped that since her father had fought with you, you might make an exception for her. It's better than sending her to the Honourhall, believe me.' The elf sighed heavily. 'Every time I went through the Gray Quarter, I'd see her standing there shivering, people walking past her as if she didn't exist… if I can't give her a home myself, I knew I had to entrust her to someone I knew would be good to her.'

Ulfric nodded. 'A Nord child as young as her shouldn't have to be reduced to begging in the Gray Quarter.'

'Why the Grey Quarter specifically?' Arven's voice was guarded, but Ulfric could detect that tone he'd heard there before – a cool, cautious accusation.

This time, though, it didn't make him angry.

'You know what the Dunmer think of Nords,' Ulfric replied. 'She'd be in danger there.'

'They seemed fond of her, actually. Some of them gave her food sometimes.' Arven drew in a long, slow breath. 'Besides… with all due respect, Jarl Ulfric, I think maybe the Dunmer of Windhelm might not dislike Nords so much if they were made to feel more welcome.'

'And why should they be made to feel welcome?'

'Because they're _people,_ Gods damn it!'

Ulfric had never heard the Dragonborn raise his voice before. Except once. That one time, in High Hrothgar, when he'd forced Elenwen from the negotiations. When all his anger seemed to have burst out of him at once. And it was the same here, if without the Draconic and the shaking of the walls – a sudden explosion, as if things that had been left unsaid for too long had finally broken free. Suddenly, out of nowhere, with hardly any provocation, something in Arven had snapped.

Silence fell. Ulfric stared at the elf, who suddenly seemed far more like an elf than he normally did. He did feel angry now, he could feel the words building up inside him to tell this Altmer that he had no right to speak such bold criticism – but something stopped him.

That something was the Dragonborn's dog rising to his feet, glancing between them, and saying loudly, 'Well, _that_ took you long enough.'

Arven's eyes widened, and he whipped around to face the dog. 'Barbas!'

'What? I told you to tell him that… what, a year ago?'

Ulfric stared. And stared some more. And pointed a tentative finger at the animal.

'It talks,' he said. Which was a completely unnecessary statement, he realised a moment later.

'Constantly.' Arven nodded. 'To be honest, I'm surprised I managed to keep him quiet every time he's been in your presence before.'

The dog rolled its eyes. _Rolled its eyes._ 'It was either this, or he strangles you for talking back to him. Which would you prefer?'

'Right, we're going.' Arven reached down and grasped the dog's scruff in one hand. 'Come on.'

'Wait.' Ulfric shook his head. 'Barbas? _The_ Barbas?'

'I'm not a Daedra worshipper or anything,' Arven said quickly. 'Honestly, I thought I was just retrieving a lost dog at first. I end up with this mouthy mutt tagging along with me.'

'Clavicus has got to realise how much he actually misses me. Only then am I going back to him,' Barbas said firmly. 'Besides, hanging around with you mortals can be pretty fun. The intelligent ones, anyway.'

He shot Ulfric a look as he spoke – one that made him completely certain that Barbas wasn't including him in that number.

'Well, this particular mortal doesn't seem to share those feelings, Barbas,' Arven snapped, gesturing at Ulfric. 'Which is why we're going to give him some peace. Come _on.'_

'Before I can tell him what you've wanted to tell him since you first met him and don't have the guts to? Not likely.'

'Barbas, _please –'_

'No.' Ulfric swallowed, tried to steady his breathing - Gods damn it, the companion of Clavicus Vile himself was in his home - and looked the elf in the eyes. 'If you have something to say, I want to hear it.'

'He's just making trouble.'

Barbas slapped the Altmer with his tail. 'You want the truth? Blondie here reckons you're an idiot for thinking that just because one group of elves put you through Oblivion, you act like the whole lot of them are mudcrabs.'

'That is _not_ what I said.' Arven hesitated. 'Not in those words, anyway.'

'And,' Barbas continued, 'he's pretty irritated that you don't make much effort to try and work out whether you're right to hate them or not. I mean, when was the last time you actually visited any of those elves? 'Cause Blondie just fought a war for you. Who knows if any of those grey guys might do the same?'

'Barbas, if you've got to start an ethical debate, you might at least do it subtly.'

'Hey, I'm not saying I agree. I mean, you mortals are all mad. I'm just passing on what you've said.'

'Which is really not what I said.'

'You just said it more politely.'

'Because I'm talking about the future High King of Skyrim.'

'Well, he just asked your opinion, so I gave him it.'

'And now we're really going.' Arven made a renewed attempt to drag the dog away, and this time, the dog didn't resist. 'I'm sorry, Jarl Ulfric. Yes, I have said and thought all those things, but I was actually intending to phrase them in a less… confrontational manner.'

Barbas pulled himself free. 'Sometimes you got to look facts in the face. I mean, if a dog can talk, and a mortal can be a dragon, and an Altmer can swing a greatsword, seems to me that Grumpy here shouldn't have too much difficult in seeing at least a couple of elves as decent guys.'

'That kind of thing needs to be proved in actions,' Arven said tersely.

'Which is what you've been doing for a year. Come on, pal, if no one said anything, was he ever going to realise?'

Arven huffed. 'Stop talking.'

'Fine, fine. Woof.'

Ulfric, still having trouble gathering his thoughts, didn't protest as the elf picked up the dog with one hand, tucked him under one arm, and carried the protesting Daedra-animal out of the Palace. The door slammed, and the silence that followed was profound.

A minute passed, maybe more, and Ulfric slowly moved back to his throne and sank into it. He closed his eyes, placed his head in his hands, and thought. There wasn't much else you could do, when Clavicus Vile's conscience turned out to have been tagging along with one of your most trusted friends.

Once he was done thinking about the utter abnormality of what had just happened, he turned to thinking about what Barbas had said. He thought of a homeless Nord girl given food by Dunmer and taken to a place of safety by an Altmer. He thought of the deeds of a golden-skinned warrior who had saved his life at Helgen. He thought of the song they had sung the night before the battle for Solitude, and the memory resurfaced so strongly it almost seemed to sound again in his ears.

' _We march under one banner_

 _And we share a single name_

 _And when we die, we all shall die the same...'_

Did it really take an animal talking to him, a _Daedric_ animal talking, to make him think? To see clearly what Arven had been trying to tell him for so long?

A door creaked open, and Ulfric looked up to see Jorleif emerging, rubbing his hands together. 'I've found the girl a berth in the servants' quarters. And a new dress.'

'Good.' Ulfric rose to his feet. 'And now I'd like you to take a message to me.'

'Gladly, my Jarl. Who to?'

'Brunwulf Free-Winter.'

Jorleif's brows lowered, but he dipped his head. 'What kind of message?'

'Tell him to come to the Palace and speak to me.' Ulfric breathed in deeply. 'Tell him I'd like his advice about the Grey Quarter.'

* * *

Ulfric told no one what had happened in the Palace of the Kings that day. No one would have believed him about Barbas, to begin with. And perhaps more importantly, he didn't want them to know that it had taken so much to change his mind.

It was generally assumed that it was Sofie who had changed him, and perhaps that was true. She had begun the conversation that had led to Barbas's sudden refusal to stay silent any longer. And she'd done more than that, too. Having her around the Palace, feeling responsible for her… well, it had been impossible for him not to become attached to her. At firs she'd been painfully shy around him, opening up only when Arven came to visit. But things changed, slowly. He'd found it easier to speak to her, the more used he became to her presence, and soon she was confiding in him as much as in Arven.

Caring for the girl softened the High King's heart, was what the people of Skyrim were saying, according to Galmar. That was their explanation for why, once the Jagged Crown was on his head and Skyrim united under him, he'd suddenly started to show concern for the elves of the Grey Quarter. Why he'd spoken to Brunwulf Free-Winter, and acted on the old warrior's advice. Create work for them, Brunwulf had said, so they'll have the money to repair their homes, and they'll have you to thank for it.

It was easy enough to do. So much of Skyrim's industry had been damaged by the war. Ulfric sent out the orders that new mills had to be built, new mines had to be dug, and that the King's treasury would pay the workers. Plenty of the elves of the Grey Quarter signed up. Brunwulf advised Ulfric well on how much to pay them. And within two years, not only had the project turned a healthy profit, Brunwulf reported that the Dunmer's homes were in better states, their morale higher, their opinion of him more favourable.

Ulfric would never like them. He did not want them in his city. But here they were, in his city, and he did not want them to hate him. He had never cared before, but things had changed. He had changed.

He had changed because of a red-haired girl who could do what few others could – make him laugh. Sofie had opened his heart again. She was less of a ward to him now, more of a daughter, and perhaps someday he would officially take her in. He hesitated to do so, because adopting her would make her his heir, and he didn't want to thrust such responsibility on her shoulders. But he was starting to feel like a father to her.

And he had changed because of a warpaint-wearing Altmer who had the heart of a Nord, the soul of a dragon, and the blood of an elf. He had changed because Arven had proven him wrong.

He had changed because he was happier now. The war was over. He had friends at his side. He had the Empire and the Dominion at bay. He had an almost-daughter.

Or perhaps he was happier because he had changed.

* * *

'Are they here yet?'

Ulfric smiled and shook his head. 'I told you I'd send someone up for you when they got here.'

'I got bored waiting,' Sofie told him. 'I can only read _Aevar Stone-Singer_ so many times. The ending's still rubbish.'

'Not every story needs to tell you everything about what happens once it's over.'

'I know. It's just annoying that that one doesn't.'

It was morning; the Palace was cold, despite the fires the servants had lit and were struggling to maintain. But it didn't seem to be curbing Sofie's enthusiasm. The girl had almost tripped over her thick cloak as she'd hurried down the stairs, and Ulfric couldn't help but be amused by the sheer number of warm tunics she'd pulled on. Fourteen years of age now, Sofie still had the clumsy eagerness of her childhood. Ulfric would miss it when she matured out of it.

'Did they tell you what time they'd arrive?'

'They just said this morning, Sofie. Settle down.' Ulfric pulled gestured for her to sit on his right. 'You know Arven, he'll either be right on time or utterly late. He's got slack since he left the army.'

'Lydia's not normally late. She'll get the rest of them here.'

As if Sofie's words had been a summoning spell, the door to the Palace swung open.

Ulfric rose from his seat, smiling. It was hard not to smile in the presence of the Storm-Watcher family. There was Arven, dressed in a red tunic with a fur lining as protection against the cold. And beside him, Lydia, shunning a dress in favour of breeches as she so often did, her face weary, but filled with smiles. And running after them –

'Uncle Ulfric!'

Ulfric staggered, which was understandable, since there was now a small child clinging to each of his legs. He shook his head in amazement – it never ceased to amaze him just how fast Arven's twin children could move. He smiled down at them – Eirik, his hair golden like his father's, but his eyes a very human greenish grey, and Mella, brown-haired like her mother, though as some half-bloods occasionally did, she had taken on her father's eye colour. If Ulfric had found it strange looking at a brother-in-arms and seeing those golden-amber elven eyes, it was stranger still seeing them in the face of a four-year-old Nord girl. There would have been a time when the sight would have disgusted him, but now… well, for one thing, the girl's father was the second-closest friend he had. And for another, Mella was Mella.

'Let him move,' Arven chuckled, hurrying forwards to disentangle his offspring. 'It's good to see you, Jarl Ulfric. And you, Sofie.'

'Hi, Arven. Hi, Lydia. Hi, Eirik. Hi, Mella.' Sofie rattled of the list of names quickly, then scurried over to Lydia. 'Have you brought him?'

'We have indeed.' Arven's smile was too big for his face. 'Didn't we promise?'

Ulfric pulled out a chair, and Lydia carefully settled herself down into it, the better for Sofie to see the Storm-Watcher's third child, born two days ago. Ulfric moved up behind his almost-foster daughter and peered down at the tiny form nestled in Lydia's arms, firmly and warmly wrapped in a cloak. 'A boy,' was all the message Arven had sent them by courier had said, 'and I bet you'll tell me he's got the wrong ear shape.' Now he was able to take a look at the baby, Ulfric understood – the boy was more obviously half-elven than Mella or Eirik, with tiny points to his ears, though they were not the long triangles that a full-blooded elf's would have been. His eyes, too, had yellow whites and pale emerald pupils, and something of an Altmer's angular shape. Other than that, though, he was Nordic in appearance, with a few tufts of dark hair.

'What's his name?' Sofie breathed.

'Eyolf,' Lydia replied.

'A good name.' Ulfric nodded his approval. He hadn't been the least bit surprised when Arven and Lydia had given the twins Nordic names – since they looked almost entirely Nord, barring Mella's pupil colour, they would have stood out with the long, clumsy names of High Elves. Besides, Arven had embraced Nord traditions so completely that it would have been hopelessly out of character for him to name them differently.

'He's so tiny.' Sofie sat down and picked Mella up, seating the girl on her lap. 'So, what do you think about having two brothers, Mel?'

Mella's brow creased, and she seemed to concentrate for a moment before saying, 'It's OK. Ma will have girls next.'

'Ma will not.' Lydia snort quietly. 'Three is quite enough to handle, thank you.'

Mella pulled a face, and Eirik jumped on a chair to get a better look at his younger sibling. 'I'm not the youngest now,' he said gleefully.

'I'm still the oldest,' Mella pointed out, a hint of triumph in her voice.

'Great Talos.' Ulfric glanced at Arven. 'Four years old and already in competition.'

'True Nords,' Arven replied, and Ulfric had to laugh.

Sofie edged nearer to Lydia. 'Can I hold him?'

Lydia nodded. 'Just be careful. You remember how to do it, from when Eirik and Mella were this small? Just keep his head up. There you go.'

As the grinning Sofie gathered Eyolf up in his arms, Arven rose to his feet and moved over to sit beside Ulfric. 'Four years on, I'm still getting used to the fact that the twins actually exist,' he murmured. 'Not sure if my brain can take Eyolf too.'

'I don't follow.'

'I mean that when I first came to Skyrim, I'd have thought anyone who told me that in four years' time I'd be married to the most incredible woman on Tamriel and have three children… well, I'd have told them they'd been claimed by Sheogorath.'

'Why shouldn't you deserve happiness?'

Arven shook his head. 'It's not that so much. It's that… I never really thought I'd fit in, no matter where I went. Back on Alinor, I always felt at home with my parents, but everywhere else, I was the weird Altmer kid who seemed to think he was a Nord. I thought it would be the same in Skyrim, maybe worse. But I was accepted here.'

He leaned back in his seat. 'I've got so many different sides to me. I hope it's not the same for my children. Eirik will be all right, he can pass as a Nord. But Mella and Eyolf… I don't want them to face prejudice because their father's an Altmer.'

'They won't.' Ulfric met his friend's gaze. 'The moment they tell anyone their name is Storm-Watcher, they'll be given nothing but praise for having a father who's the Dragonborn.'

'I'm not sure if I want that, either. Whatever future Mella, Eirik and Eyolf have, I want them to be able to make it for themselves. I'll be here to guide their lives, but I don't want to be what shapes it. Our heritage shouldn't define us.'

Ulfric raised his eyebrows. 'It doesn't. You've proved that.'

He pulled over the bottles of mead he'd set out ready for the Storm-Watcher's arrival. 'Don't worry about the future for now, Arven. Let's celebrate the present.'

He passed Arven a bottle, pushed one down the table to Lydia, shook his head firmly at Eirik and Mella – who fortunately didn't seem to have a clue that once they were older, they'd kill to get their hands on the stuff the adults were now passing around. Ulfric raised an eyebrow at Sofie, but she shook her head. A Nord she might have been, but she was also sensible.

'Here.' Ulfric uncorked his bottle and lifted it. 'To Eyolf.'

As Arven and Lydia echoed him, tipping back their glasses, Ulfric founds himself hesitating with his mead half-raised. Quite often, when in the company of the Storm-Watchers, or even just when he was with Sofie, Ulfric found himself thinking that something about the situation was surreal. And now, for the first time, he realised why. He felt the same as Arven – four years ago, he had never imagined that he would have this simple, uncomplicated happiness. The war was over, the Empire and the Dominion at bay, Elenwen dead. He had Sofie to care for, Galmar to give him support, the grumblings from the Grey Quarter reducing every day, a better reputation. And aside from Galmar, who'd always been there, those were not things Ulfric had ever expected to have.

And all of those things had happened because of Arvenrior Storm-Watcher. Because a strange man in iron armour had saved his life at Helgen, and then joined his army, helped fight his war, killed his greatest enemy, brought Sofie to him, and opened his eyes.

Arven was one of those people who deserved to have good things in their life. He had always deserved to have a family, to be accepted. Ulfric was not one of those people. He'd never been a man who attracted good things to him.

But in the end, he'd found them. Because he'd made friends with an elf.

Well, that was life, he supposed. The Gods worked in mysterious ways. And he was grateful for it.

 _To friendship,_ he thought, lifting the bottle to his lips. _And to the future._

 _END_


End file.
